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Go  live  poor  v.-sianerer  of  -the  wood- and.  held 
The  litter  ViWe  that,  of  Me  reasaai.ne 
No  more  the  ftrirtopwjn g»  brakes  and.  verdant 
To  thae*  shall  Home,  or  food.”-  pastime  jceilcL 


THE  WORKS 


ROBERT  BURNS: 

WITH 

AN  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  LIFE, 


AND 

Criticism  on  l)is  itJritiugs. 


TO  WHICH  ARE  PREFIXED. 


SOME  OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  CHARACTER  AND  CONDITION  OF 
THE  SCOTTISH  PEASANTRY. 


BY  JAMES  CURRIE,  M.  D. 


INCLUDING 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS, 


EXTRACTED  FROM  THE  LATE  EDITION  EDITED  BY 
ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


CINCINNATI: 

PUBLISHED  BY  J.  A.  & U.  P.  JAMES, 
WALNUT  ST.,  BET.  FOURTH  & FIFTH. 

Stereotyped  by  James  & Co. 

1847. 


A 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


OP 

THE  AUTHOR. 


Robert  Burns  was  born  on  the  29th  day  of  Janua- 
ry, 1759,  in  a small  house  about  two  miles  from  the 
town  of  Ayr  in  Scotland.  The  family  name,  which 
the  poet  modernized  into  Burns , was  originally  Burnes 
or  Burness.  His  father,  William,  appears  to  have 
been  early  mured  to  poverty  and  hardships,  which  he 
bore  with  pious  resignation,  and  endeavored  to  allevi- 
ate by  industry  and  economy.  After  various  attempts 
to  gam  a livelihood,  he  took  a lease  of  seven  acres  of 
land,  with  a view  of  commencing  nurseryman  and  pub- 
lic gardener;  and  having  built  a house  upon  it  with  his 
own  hands,  (an  instance  of  patient  ingenuity  by  no 
means  uncommon  among  his  countrymen  in  humble 
life,)  he  married,  December,  1757,  Agnes  Brown* 
The  first  fruit  of  his  marriage  was  Robert,  the  sub- 
ject of  the  present  sketch. 

In  his  sixth  year,  Robert  was  sent  to  school,  where 
he  made  considerable  proficiency  in  reading  and  writ- 
ing, and  where  he  discovered  an  inclination  for  books 
not  very  common  at  so  early  an  age.  About  the  age 
of  thirteen  or  fourteen,  he  was  sent  to  the  parish  school 
of  Dalrymple,  where  he  increased  his  aquaintance 
with  English  Grammar,  and  gained  some  knowledge 
of  the  French.  Latin  was  also  recommended  to  him ; 
but  he  did  not  make  any  great  progress  in  it. 

The  far  greater  part  of  his  time,  however,  was  em- 
ployed on  his  father’s  farm,  which,  in  spite  of  much  in- 
dustry, became  so  unproductive  as  to  involve  the  fam- 
ily in  great  distress.  His  father  having  taken  another 
farm,  the  speculation  was  yet  more  fatal,  and  involv- 
ed his  affairs  in  complete  ruin.  He  died,  February 
13,  1784,  leaving  behind  him  the  character  of  a good 
and  wise  man,  and  an  affectionate  father,  who,  under 
all  his  misfortunes,  struggled  to  procure  his  children 
an  excellent  education  ; and  endeavored,  both  by  pre- 
cept and  example  to  form  their  minds  to  religion  and 
virtue. 

It  was  between  the  fifteenth  and  sixleeenth  year  of 
his  age,  that  Robert  first  "committed  the  sin  of  rhyme.” 
Having  formed  a boyish  affection  for  a female  who 
was  his  companion  in  the  toils  of  the  field,  he  compos- 
ed a song,  which,  however  extraordinary  from  one  at 
his  age,  and  in  his  circumstances,  is  far  inferior  to  any 
of  his  subsequent  performances.  He  was  at  this  time 
“ an  ungainly,  awkward  boy,”  unacquainted  with  the 
world,  but  who  occasionally  had  picked  up  some  no- 
tions of  history,  literature,  and  criticism,  from  the  few 
books  within  his  reach.  These  he  informs  us,  were 
Salmon’s  and  Guthrie’s  Geographical  Grammars,  the 
Spectator,  Pope’s  Works,  some  plays  of  Shakspeare, 
Tull  and  Dickson  on  Agriculture,  the  Pantheon, 
Locke’s  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding,  Stack- 
house’s History  of  the  Bible,  Justice’s  British  Garden- 
er’s Directory,  Boyle’s  Lectures,  Allan  Ramsay’s 
Works,  Taylor’s  Scripture  Doctrine  of  Original  Sin, 
a Select  Collection  of  English  Songs,  and  Hervey’s 
Meditations.  Of  this  motley  assemblage,  it  mayr  read- 
ily bo  supposed,  that  some  would  be  studied,  and  some 

•This  excellent  woman  is  still  living  in  the  family  of  her  son  Gilbert, 
(May,  1813.) 


read  superficially.  There  is  reason  to  think,  however, 
that  he  perused  the  works  of  the  poets  with  such  at- 
tention, as,  assisted  by  his  naturally  vigorous  capaci* 
ty,  soon  directed  his  taste,  and  enabled  him  to  discrim- 
inate tenderness  and  sublimity  from  affectation  and 
bombast. 

It  appears  that  from  the  seventeenth  to  the  twenty- 
fourth  year  of  Robert’s  age,  he  made  no  considerable 
literary  improvement.  His  accessions  of  knowledge, 
or  opportunities  of  reading,  could  not  be  frequent, 
but  no  external  circumstances,  could  prevent  the 
innate  peculiarities  of  his  character  from  displaying 
themselves.  He  was  distinguished  by  a vigorous 
understanding,  and  an  untameable  spirit.  His  resent- 
ments were  quick,  and,  although  not  durable,  express- 
ed with  a volubility  of  indignation  which  could  not 
but  silence  and  overwhelm  his  humble  and  illiterate 
associates  ; while  the  occasional  effusions  of  his  muse 
on  temporary  subjects,  which  were  handed  about  in 
manuscript,  raised  him  to  a local  superiority  that 
seemed  the  earnest  of  a more  extended  fame.  His 
first  motive  to  compose  verses,  as  lias  been  already  no- 
ticed, was  his  early  and  warm  attachment  to  the  fair 
sex.  His  favorites  were  in  the  humblest  walks  of 
life ; but  during  his  passion,  he  elevated  them  to  Lau- 
ras and  Saccharissas.  His  attachments,  however, 
were  of  the  purer  kind,  and  his  constant  theme  the 
happiness  of  the  married  state;  to  obtain  a suitable 
provision  for  which,  he  engaged  in  partnership  with 
a flax-dresser,  hoping,  probably,  to  attain  by  degrees 
the  rank  of  a manufacturer.  But  this  speculation  was 
attended  with  very  little  success,  and  was  finally  end- 
ed by  an  accidental  fire. 

On  his  father’s  death  he  took  a farm  in  conjunction 
with  his  brother,  with  the  honorable  view  of  providing 
for  their  large  and  orphan  family.  But  here,  too,  he 
was  doomed  to  be  unfortunate,  although,  in  his  broth- 
er Gilbert,  he  had  a coadjutor  of  excellent  sense,  a 
man  of  uncommon  powers  both  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression. 

During  his  residence  on  this  farm  he  formed  a con- 
nexion with  a young  woman,  the  consequences  of 
which  could  not  be  long  concealed.  In  this  dilemma, 
the  imprudent  couple  agreed  to  make  a legal  acknowl- 
edgment of  a private  marriage,  and  projected  that  she 
should  remain  with  her  father,  while  he  was  to  go  to 
Jamaica  “to  push  his  fortune.”  This  proceeding, 
however  romantic  it  may  appear,  would  have  rescued 
the  lady’s  character,  according  to  the  laws  of  Scotland, 
but  it  did  not  satisfy  her  father,  who  insisted  on  hav- 
ing all  the  written  documents  respecting  their  marriage 
canceled,  and  by  this  unfeeling  measure,  he  intended 
that  it  should  be  rendered  void.  Divorced  now  from 
all  he  held  dear  in  the  world,  he  had  no  resource  but 
in  his  projected  voyage  to  Jamaica,  which  was  pre- 
vented by  one  of  those  circumstances  that  in  common 
cases,  might  pass  without  observation,  but  which 
eventually  laid  the  foundation  of  his  future  fame. 
For  once,  his  poverty  stood  his  friend.  Had  he  been 
provided  with  money  to  pay  for  his  passage  to  Jamaica, 
iii 


IV 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


lie  might  have  set  sail,  and  been  forgotten.  But  he 
was  destitute  of  every  necessary  for  the  voyage,  and 
was  therefore  advised  to  raise  a sum  of  money  by 
publishing  his  poems  in  the  way  of  subscription. 
They  were  accordingly  printed  at  Kilmarnock,  in  the 
year  1786,  in  a small  volume,  which  was  encouraged 
by  subscriptions  for  about  350  copies. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  express  with  what  eager  ad- 
miration these  poems  were  everywhere  received. 
Old  and  young,  h'gh  and  low,  learned  and  ignorant, 
all  were  alike  delighted.  Such  transports  would  nat- 
urally find  their  way  into  the  bosom  of  the  author, 
especially  when  he  found  that,  instead  of  the  necessi- 
ty of  flying  from  his  native  land,  he  was  now  encour- 
aged to  go  to  Edinburgh  and  superintend  the  publica- 
tion of  a second  edition.  t 

In  the  metropolis,  he  was  soon  introduced  into  the 
company  and  received  the  homage  of  men  of  litera- 
ture, rank,  and  taste  ; and  his  appearance  and  behav- 
ior at  this  time,  as  they  exceeded  all  expectation, 
heightened  and  kept  up  the  curiosity  which  his  works 
had  excited.  He  became  the  object  of  universal 
admiration,  and  feasted,  and  flattered,  as  if  it  had 
been  impossible  to  reward  his  merit  too  highly.  But 
what  contributed  principally  to  extend  his  fame  into 
the  sister  kingdom,  was  his  fortunate  introduction  to 
Mr.  Mackenzie,  who,  in  the  97th  paper  of  the  Lounger, 
recommended  his  poems  by  judicious  specimens,  and 
generous  and  elegant  criticism.  From  this  time, 
whether  present  or  absent,  Burns  and  his  genius 
were  the  objects  which  engrossed  all  attention  and 
all  conversation. 

It  cannot  be  surprising  if  this  new  scene  of  life, 
produced  effects  on  Burns  which  were  the  source  of 
much  of  the  unhappiness  of  his  future  life : for  while 
he  was  admitted  to  the  company  of  men  of  taste,  and 
virtue,  he  was  also  seduced,  by  pressing  invitations 
into  the  society  of  those  whose  habits  are  too  social 
and  inconsiderate.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  had 
little  resolution  to  withstand  those  attentions  which 
flattered  his  merit,  and  appeared  to  be  the  just  respect 
due  to  a degree  of  superiority,  of  which  he  could  not 
avoid  being  conscious.  Among  his  superiors  in  rank 
and  merit,  his  behavior  was  in  general  decorous  and 
unassuming;  but  among  his  more  equal  or  inferior 
associates,  he  was  himself  the  source  of  the  mirth  of 
the  evening,  and  repaid  the  attention  and  submission 
of  his  hearers  byr  sallies  of  wit,  which,  from  one  of 
his  birth  and  education,  had  all  the  fascination  of  won- 
der. His  introduction,  about  the  same  time,  into  con- 
vivial clubs  of  higher  rank,  was  an  injudicious  mark 
of  respect  to  one  who  was  destined  to  return  to  the 
plow,  and  to  the  simple  and  frugal  enjoyments  of  a 
peasant’s  life. 

During  his  residence  at  Edinburgh,  his  finances 
were  considerably  improved  byr  the  new  edition  of  his 
poems ; and  this  enabled  him  to  visit  several  other 
parts  of  his  native  country.  I le  left  Edinburgh,  May 
6,  1787,  and  in  the  course  of  his  journey  was  hos- 
pitably received  at  the  houses  of  many  gentlemen 
of  worth  and  learning.  He  afterwards  traveled  into 
England  as  far  as  Carlisle.  In  the  beginning  of  June 
he  arrived  in  Ayrshire,  after  an  absence  of  six  months, 
during  which  he  had  experienced  a change  of  fortune, 
to  which  the  hopes  of  few  men  in  his  situation  could 
have  aspired.  His  companion  in  some  of  these  tours 
was  a Mr.  Nicol,  a man  who  was  endeared  to  Burns 
not  only  by  the  warmth  of  his  friendship,  but  by  a 
certain  congeniality  of  sentiment  and  agreement  in 
habits.  This  sympathy,  in  some  instances,  made  our 
poet  capriciously  fond  of  companions,  who,  in  the 
eyes  of  men  of  more  regular  conduct,  were  insuffer- 
able. 

During  the  greater  part  of  the  winter  of  1787-8,  Burns 
again  resided  in  Edinburgh,  and  entered  with  peculiar 
relish  into  its  gayeties.  But  as  the  singularities  of  his 
manner  displayed  themselves  more  openly,  and  as  the 
novelty  of  his  manner  wore  off,  he  became  less  an 
object  of  general  attention.  He  lingered  long  in  this 
place,  in  hopes  that  some  situation  would  have  been 
offered  which  might  place  him  in  independence : but 
as  it  did  not  seem  probable  that  anything  of  that  kind 


would  occur  soon,  he  began  seriously  to  reflect  that 
tours  of  pleasure  and  praise  would  not  provide  for  the 
wants  of  a family.  Influenced  by  these  considerations 
he  quilted  Edinburgh  in  the  mouth  of  February,  1788. 
Finding  himself  master  of  nearly  £500,  from  the  sale 
of  his  poems,  he  took  the  farm  of  Ellisland.  near  Dum- 
fries, and  stocked  it  with  part  of  this  money,  besides 
generously  advancing  £200  to  his  brother  Gilbert,  who 
was  struggling  with  difficulties.  He  was  now  legally 
united  to  Mrs.  Burns,  who  joined  him  with  their  child- 
ren about  the  end  of  this  year. 

Quitting  now  speculation  for  more  active  pursuits, 
he  rebuilt  the  dwelling-house  on  his  farm ; and  during 
his  engagement  in  this  object,  and  while  the  regula- 
tions  of  the  farm  had  the  charm  of  novelty,  he  passed 
his  time  in  more  tranquillity  than  he  had  lately  expe- 
rienced. But,  unfortunately,  his  old  habits  were  rath- 
er interrupted  than  broken.  He  was  again  invited 
into  social  parties,  with  the  additional  recommenda- 
tion of  a man  who  had  seen  the  world,  and  lived  with 
the  great;  and  again  partook  of  those  irregularities  for 
which  men  of  warm  imaginations,  and  conversational 
talents,  find  too  many  apologies.  But  a circumstance 
now  occurred  which  threw  many  obstacles  in  his  way 
as  a farmer. 

Burns  very  fondly  cherished  those  notions  of  inde- 
pendence, which  are  dear  to  the  young  and  ingenuous. 
But  he  had  not  matured  these  by  reflection ; and  he 
was  now  to  learn,  that  a little  knowledge  of  the  world 
will  overturn  many  such  airy  fabrics.  If  we  may 
form  any  judgment,  however,  from  his  correspondence, 
his  expectations  were  not  very  extravagant,  since  he 
expected  only  that  some  of  his  illustrious  patrons 
would  have  placed  him,  on  whom  they  bestowed  the 
honors  of  genius,  in  a situation  where  his  exertions 
might  have  been  uninterrupted  by  the  fatigues  of 
labor,  and  the  calls  of  want.  Disappointed  in  this, 
he  now  formed  a design  of  applying  for  the  office 
of  exciseman,  as  a kind  of  resource  in  case  his  ex- 
pectations from  the  farm  should  be  baffled.  By  the 
interest  of  one  of  his  friends,  this  object  was  accom- 
plished; and  after  the  usual  forms  were  gone  through, 
he  was  appointed  exciseman,  or,  as  it  is  vulgarly  cal- 
led, gauger  of  the  district  in  which  he  lived. 

“His  farm  was  now  abandoned  to  his  servants, 
while  he  betook  himself  to  the  duties  of  his  new  ap- 
pointment. He  might  still,  indeed,  be  seen  in  the 
spring,  directing  his  plow,  a labor  in  which  he  excel- 
led, or  striding,  with  measured  steps,  along  his  turned- 
up  furrows,  and  scattering  the  grain  in  the  earth. 
But  his  farm  no  longer  occupied  the  principal  part  of 
his  care  or  his  thoughts.  Mounted  on  horseback,  he 
was  found  pursuing  the  defaulters  of  the  revenue, 
among  the  hills  and  vales  of  Nithsdale.” 

About  this  time,  (1792,)  he  was  solicited  to  give  his 
aid  to  Mr.  Thomson’s  Collection  of  Scottish  Songs. 
He  wrote,  with  attention  atid  without  delay,  for  this 
work,  all  the  songs  which  appear  in  this  volume  ; to 
which  we  have  added  those  he  contributed  to  John- 
son’s Musical  Museum. 

Burns  also  found  leisure  to  form  a society  for  pur- 
chasing and  circulating  books  among  the  farmers  of 
the  neighborhood ; but  these,  however  praiseworthy 
employments,  still  interrupted  the  attention  he  ought  to 
have  bestowed  on  his  farm,  which  became  so  unpro- 
ductive that  he  found  it  convenient  to  resign  it,  and, 
disposing  of  his  stock  and  crop,  removed  to  a small 
house  which  he  had  taken  in  Dumfries,  a short  time 
previous  to  his  lyric  engagement  with  Mr.  Thomson. 
He  had  now  received  from  the  Board  of  Excise,  an 
appointment  to  a new  district,  the  emoluments  of 
which  amounted  to  about  seventy  pounds  sterling 
; per  annum. 

While  at  Dumfries,  his  temptations  to  irregularity, 
recurred  so  frequently  as  nearly  to  overpower  his  res- 
olutions, and  which  he  appears  to  have  formed  with  a 
perfect  knowledge  of  what  is  right  and  prudent.  Dur- 
ing his  quiet  moments,  however,  he  was  enlarging  his 
fame  by  those  admirable  compositions  he  sent  to  Mr 
Thomson  : and  his  temporary  sallies  and  flashes  of 
imagination,  in  the  merriment  of  the  social  table,  still 


OF  THE  AUTHOR 


v 


bespoke  a genius  of  wonderful  strength  and  captiva- 
tions. It  lias  been  said,  indeed,  that  extraordinary 
as  liis  poems  are.  they  afford  but  inadequate  proof 
of  the  powers  of  their  author,  or  of  that  acuteness 
of  observation,  and  expression,  he  displayed  on  com- 
mon topics  in  conversat  on  In  the  society  of  per 
sons  of  taste,  he  could  refrain  from  those  indul- 
gences, which,  among  his  more  constant  companions, 
probably  formed  his  chief  recommendation. 

The  emoluments  of  his  office,  which  now  compo- 
sed his  whole  fortune,  soon  appeared  insufficient  for 
the  maintenance  of  his  family.  He  did  not,  indeed, 
from  the  first,  expect  that  they  could;  but  he  had 
hopes  of  promotion,  and  would  probably  have  at- 
tained it,  if  he  had  not  forfe  ted  the  favor  of  the 
Board  of  Excse,  by  some  conversations  on  the 
state  of  public  affairs,  which  were  deemed  highly 
improper,  and  were  probably  reported  to  the  Board 
in  a way  not  calculated  to  lessen  their  effect.  That 
he  should  have  been  deceived  by  the  affairs  in 
France  during  the  early  periods  of  the  revolution,  is 
not  surprising;  he  only  caught  a portion  of  an  en- 
thusiasm which  was  then  very  general ; but  that  he 
should  have  raised  his  imagination  to  a warmth  be- 
yond his  fellows,  will  appear  very  singular,  when 
we  consider  that  he  had  hitherto  distinguished  him- 
self as  a Jacobite,  an  adherent  to  the  house  of  Stew- 
art. Yet  he  had  uttered  opinions  which  were  thought 
dangerous:  and  information  being  given  to  the 
Board,  an  inquiry  was  instituted  into  his  conduct, 
the  result  of  which,  although  rather  favorable,  was 
not  so  much  so  as  to  reinstate  him  in  the  good  opinion 
of  the  commissioners.  Interest  was  necessary  to 
enable  him  to  retain  his  office  ; and  he  was  informed 
that  his  promotion  was  deferred,  and  must  depend  on 
his  future  behavior. 

He  is  said  to  have  defended  himself  on  this  occa- 
sion in  a letter  addressed  to  one  of  the  Board,  with 
much  spirit  and  skill.  He  wrote  another  letter  to  a 
gentleman,  who,  hearing  that  he  had  been  dismissed 
from  his  situation,  proposed  a subscription  for  him. 
In  this  last,  he  gives  an  account  of  the  whole  trans- 
action. and  endeavors  to  vindicate  his  loyalty;  he 
also  contends  for  an  independence  of  spirit,  which 
he  certa  nly  possessed,  but  which  yet  appears  to  have 
pariaktn  of  that  extravagance  of  sentiment  which 
is  fitter  to  point  a stanza  than  to  conduct  a life. 

A passage  in  this  letter  is  too  characteristic  to  be 
omitted. — ‘-  Often,”  says  our  poet,  ‘ in  blasting  an- 
ticipation have  I listened  to  some  future  hackney 
Bcribl  ler,  with  heavy  malice  of  savage  stupidity,  ex- 
ultingly  asserting  that  Burns,  notwithstanding  the 
fanfaronade  of  independence  to  be  found  in  his 
works,  and  af.er  having  been  held  up  to  public  view, 
and  to  public  estimation,  as  a man  of  some  genius, 
yet  quite  dest  tute  of  resources  within  himself  to 
support  his  borrowed  dignity,  dwindled  in  o a pal- 
try exciseman;  and  slunk  out  the  rest  of  his  insig- 
nificant existence,  n the  meanest  of  pursuits,  and 
among  the  lowest  of  mankind.” 

This  passage  has  no  doubt  often  been  read  with 
sympathy.  That  Burns  should  have  embraced  ihe 
only  of  por'unity  in  his  power  to  provide  for  his  fam- 
ily, can  be  no  topic  of  censure  or  ridicule,  and  how- 
ever incompatib  e wi:h  the  cultivation  of  genius  the 
business  of  an  exciseman  may  he,  there  is  nothing 
of  moral  turpitude  nr  disgrace  attached  to  it.  It  was 
not  his  d oire.  it  was  the  only  he  p within  his  reach, 
and  he  laid  hold  of  it.  But  that  he  should  not  have 
found  a patron  generous  or  wise  enough  to  place 
him  in  a situation  at  least  free  from  allurements  to 
‘•the  sin  that  so  easily  beset  him.”  is  a circumstance 
on  which  the  admirers  of  Burns  have  found  it  pain- 
ful to  dwell. 

Mr.  Mackenzie,  in  the  97th  number  of  the  Loun- 
ger. after  mentioning  the  pod’s  design  of  going  to 
the  West  Indies,  concludes  that  paper  in  wor's  to 
which  sufficient  attention  appears  not  to  have  been 
paid  ; “1  irust  means  may  be  found  to  prevent  this 
resolution  from  taking  place  : and  that  I do  my  coun- 
try no  more  than  justice,  when  I suppose  her  ready 
to  stretch  out  the  hand  to  cherish  and  retain  th.s  na- 


tive poet,  whose  ‘ wood  notes  wild  ’ possess  so  much 
excellence.  To  repair  the  wrongs  of  suffering  or  ne- 
glected merit : to  call  forth  gen. us  from  the  obscuri- 
ty in  which  it  had  pined  indignant,  and  place  it  where 
it  viight  profit  or  delight  the  world:— these  are  exer- 
tions which  give  to  wealth  an  enviable  superiority, 
to  greatness  and  to  patronage  a laudaLle  piide.” 

Although  Burns  deprecated  the  reflections  which 
nrght  be  made  on  his  occupat  on  of  exciseman,  it 
may  be  necessary  to  add.  that  from  this  humble  step, 
he  foresaw  all  the  contingencies  and  gradations  of 
promotion  up  to  a rank  on  which  it  is  not  usual  to 
look  with  contempt.  In  a letter  dated  1794,  he 
states  that  he  is  on  the  list  of  supervisors;  that  in 
two  or  three  years  he  should  be  at  the  head  of  that 
list,  and  be  appointed,  as  a matter  of  course  ; but 
that  then  a friend  might  be  of  service  in  getting  him 
into  a part  of  the  kingdom  which  he  wou  d like.  A 
supervisor’s  income  varies  from  about  120/.  to  200Z. 
a year  ; but.  the  business  is  ‘ an  incessant  drudgery, 
and  would  be  nearly  a complete  bar  to  every  species 
of  literary  pursuit.”  He  proceeds,  however,  to  ob- 
serve, that  the  moment  he  is  appointed  supervisor 
he  might  be  nominated  on  the  Collector's  list,  ‘‘and 
this  is  always  a business  purely  of  political  patron- 
age. A oollectorship  varies  from  much  better  than 
two  hundred  a year  to  near  a thousand.  Collectors 
also  come  forward  by  precedency  on  the  list,  and 
have,  besides  a handsome  income,  a life  of  complete 
leisure.  A life  of  literary  leisure  with  a decent  com- 
petence, is  the  summit  of  my  wishes.” 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  continue  in  his 
present  employment  for  the  remainder  of  his  days, 
wh  ch  were  not  many.  His  constitution  was  now 
rapidly  decaying ; yet,  his  resolutions  of  amendment 
were  hut  feeble.  His  temper  became  irritable  and 
gloomy,  and  he  was  even  insensible  to  the  kind  for- 
giveness and  soothing  attentions  of  his  affect  onate 
wife.  In  the  month  of  June,  1796,  he  removed  to 
Brow,  about  ten  miles  from  Dumfries,  to  try  the  ef- 
fect of  sea-bathing;  a remedy  that  at  first,  he  imag- 
ined, relieved  the  rheumatic  pains  in  his  limbs,  with 
which  he  had  been  afflicted  for  some  months:  but 
this  was  immediately  followed  by  a new  attack  of 
fever.  When  brought  back  to  his  house  at  Dumfries, 
on  the  18th  of  July,  he  was  no  longer  able  to  stand 
upright.  The  fever  increased,  attended  with  deliri- 
um and  debility,  and  on  the  21st  he  expired,  in  the 
thirty-eighth  year  of  of  his  age. 

He  left  a widow  and  four  sons,  for  whom  the  in- 
habitants of  Dumfries  opened  a subscription,  which 
being  extended  to  England,  produced  a considerable 
sum  for  their  immediate  nece-sities  * This  has  since 
been  augmented  by  the  profits  of  the  edition  of  his 
works,  printed  in  four  volumes,  8vo.;  to  wh  ch  Dr. 
Currie,  of  Liverpool,  prefixed  a life,  written  with 
much  elegance  and  taste. 

As  to  the  person  of  our  poet,  he  is  described  as 
being  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  and  of  a 
form  that  indicated  agili'y  as  well  as  strength.  His 
we  I raised  forehead,  shaded  with  black  cur  ing  hair, 
expressed  uncommon  capacity.  His  eyes  were  large, 
dark,  full  of  ardor  and  animation.  His  Ace  was  well- 
formed  and  his  countenance  uncommonly  interest- 
ing. His  conversation  is  universally  allowed  to 
have  been  uncommonly  fascinating,  and  rich  in  wit, 
humor,  whim,  and  occasionally  in  serious  and  ap- 
posite reflection.  Thi3  excellence,  however  proved 
alasting  misfortune  to  him:  for  while  it  procured 
him  the  friendship  of  men  of  character  and  taste,  in 
whose  company  his  humor  was  guarded  and  chaste, 
it  had  also  allurements  for  the  lowest  of  mankind, 
who  know  no  diff  rence  between  freedom  and  li- 
centionsn’  ss  and  are  never  so  completely  gratified 
as  when  genius  condescends  to  give  a kind  of  sanc- 
tion to  iheir  grossness.  He  died  poor,  but  not  in 
debt,  and  left  behind  him  a name,  the  fame  of  wh.ch 
will  not  soon  be  eclipsed. 

* M's.  Burns  continues  to  live  in  the  house  in  which  the  poet  died: 
the  el  lest  son,  Robert,  is  at  present  in  the  Stamp  effi'e  : the  other  two 
are  < flicers  in  the  East  Inda  Company's  army ; William  is  in  Bengal, 
and  James  ii  Madras,  tMay.  1813,)  Wallace,  the  second  son,  a lad  or 
great  promise,  died  of  a consumption. 


PREFACE. 


TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION 


OF 

BURNS*  POEMS. 


PUBLISHED  AT  KILMARNOCK  IN  1786. 


The  following  trifles  are  not  the  production  of 
the  poet,  who,  with  all  the  advantages  of  learned 
art,  and,  perhaps,  amid  the  elegancies  and  idle- 
nesses of  upper  life,  looks  down  for  a rural  theme, 
with  an  eye  to  Theocritus  or  Virgil.  To  the  au- 
thor of  this,  these  and  other  celebrated  names, 
their  countrymen,  are,  at  least  in  the  original  lan- 
guage, a fountain  shut  up,  and  a hook  sealed. 
Unacquainted  with  the  necessary  requisites  for 
commencing  poet  by  rule,  he  sings  the  sentiments 
and  manners  he  felt  and  saw  in  himself  and  in 
his  rustic  compeers  around  him,  in  his  and  their 
native  language.  Though  a rhymer  from  his 
earliest  years,  at  least  from  the  earliest  impulses 
of  the  softer  passions,  it  was  not  till  very  lately 
that  the  applause,  perhaps  the  partiality,  of  friend- 
ship, wakened  his  vanity  so  far  as  to  make  him 
think  anything  of  his  worth  showing ; and  none 
of  the  following  works  were  composed  with  a 
view  to  the  press.  To  amuse  himself  with  the 
little  creations  of  his  own  fancy,  amid  the  toil 
and  fatigues  of  a laborious  life ; to  transcribe  the 
various  feelings,  the  loves,  the  griefs,  the  hopes, 
the  fears,  in  his  own  breast : to  find  some  counter- 
poise to  the  struggles  of  a world,  always  an  alien 
scene,  a task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind — these 
were  his  motives  for  courting  the  Muses,  and  in 
these  he  found  poetry  to  be  liis  own  reward. 

Now  that  he  appears  in  the  public  character 
of  an  author,  he  does  it  with  fear  and  trembling. 
So  dear  is  fame  to  the  rhyming  tribe,  that  even 
he,  an  obscure,  nameless  Bard,  shrinks  aghast  at 
the  thought  of  being  branded  as — An  imperti- 
nent blockhead,  obtruding  his  nonsense  on  the 
world ; and,  because  he  can  make  a shift  to  jin- 
gle a few  doggerel  Scotch  rhymes  together,  look- 


ing upon  himself  as  a poet  of  no  small  conse- 
quence, forsooth  ! 

It  is  an  observation  of  that  celebrated  poet, 
Shenstono,  whose  divine  elegies  do  honor  to  our 
language,  our  nation,  and  our  species,  that  “ Hu- 
mility has  depressed  many  a genius  to  a hermit, 
but  never  raised  one  to  fame !”  If  any  critic 
catches  at  the  word  genius,  the  author  tells  him 
once  for  all,  that  he  certainly  looks  upon  himself 
as  possessed  of  some  poetical  abilities,  otherwise 
his  publishing  in  the  manner  he  has  done,  would 
be  a maneuver  below  the  worst  character,  which, 
he  hopes,  his  worst  enemies  will  ever  give  him. 
But  to  the  genius  of  a Ramsay,  or  the  glorious 
drawings  of  the  poor  unfortunate  Fergusson,  he, 
with  equal  unaffected  sincerity,  declares,  that, 
even  in  his  highest  pulse  of  vanity,  he  has  not  the 
most  distant  pretensions.  These  two  justly  ad- 
mired Scotch  poets  he  has  often  had  in  eye  in  the 
following  pieces  : but  rather  with  a view  to  kin- 
dle at  their  flame  than  for  servile  imitation. 

To  his  Subscribers,  the  author  returns  his  most 
sincere  thanks.  Not  the  mercenary  bow  over  a 
counter,  but  the  heart-throbbing  gratitude  of  the 
bard,  conscious  how  much  he  owes  to  benevo- 
lence and  friendship,  for  gratifying  him,  if  he  de- 
serves it,  in  that  dearest  wish  of  every  poetic 
bosom — to  be  distinguished.  He  begs  his  readers, 
particularly  the  learned  and  polite,  who  will  honor 
him  with  a perusal,  that  they  will  make  every 
allowance  for  education  and  circumstances  of 
life ; but  if,  after  a fair,  candid,  and  impartial 
criticism,  he  shall  stand  convicted  of  dullness  and 
nonsense,  let  him  be  done  by  as  he  would  in  that 
case  do  by  others — let  him  be  condemned,  with- 
out mercy,  to  contempt  and  oblivion. 

vii 


♦ 


* 

. 


0 


ON 


THE  DEATH  OF  BURNS. 

BY  MR.  ROSCOE. 


Rear  high  thy  bleak,  majestic  hills, 

Thy  shelter’d  valleys  proudly  spread, 

And,  Scotia,  pour  thy  thousand  rills, 

And  wave  thy  heaths  with  blossoms  red ; 

But,  ah ! what  poet  now  shall  tread 
Thy  airy  heights,  thy  woodland  reign, 

Since  he  the  sweetest  bard  is  dead 
That  ever  breath’d  the  soothing  strain? 

As  green  thy  towering  pines  may  grow, 

As  clear  thy  streams  may  speed  along ; 

As  bright  thy  summer  suns  may  glow. 

And  wake  again  thy  feathery  throng ; 

But  now,  unheeded  is  the  song, 

And  dull  and  lifeless  all  around, 

For  his  wild  harp  lies  all  unstrung, 

And  cold  the  hand  that  wak’d  its  sound. 

What  tho’  thy  vigorous  offspring  rise, 

In  arts  and  arms  thy  sons  excel ; 

Tho’  beauty  in  thy  daughters’  eyes. 

And  health  in  every  feature  dwell ; 

Yet  who  shall  now  their  praises  tell. 

In  strains  impassion’d,  fond,  and  free, 

Since  he  no  more  the  song  shall  swell 
To  love,  and  liberty,  and  thee  ! 

With  step-dame  eye  and  frown  severe 
His  hapless  youth  why  didst  thou  view  ? 

For  aU  thy  joys  to  him  were  dear, 

And  all  his  vows  to  thee  were  due  : 

Nor  greater  bliss  his  bosom  knew. 

In  opening  youth’s  delightful  prime, 

Than  when  thy  favoring  ear  he  drew 
To  listen  to  his  chanted  rhyme. 

Thy  lonely  wastes  and  frowning  skies 
To  him  were  all  with  rapture  fraught ; 

He  heard  with  joy  the  tempests  rise 
That  wak’d  him  to  sublimer  thought; 

And  oft  thy  winding  dells  he  sought. 

Where  wild  flowers  pour’d  their  rath  perfume, 
And  with  sincere  devotion  brought 
To  thee  the  summer’s  earliest  bloom. 

But.  ah  ! no  fond  maternal  smile 
His  unprotected  youth  enjoy’d; 

His  limbs  inur’d  to  early  toil, 

His  days  with  early  hardships  tried : 


And  more  to  mark  the  gloomy  void, 

And  bid  him  feel  his  misery, 

Before  his  infant  eyes  would  glide 
Day-dreams  of  immortality. 

Yet,  not  by  cold  neglect  depress’d, 

With  sinewy  arm  he  turn’d  the  soil, 

Sunk  with  the  evening  sun  to  rest, 

And  met  at  morn  his  earliest  smile. 
Wak’d  by  his  rustic  pipe,  meanwhile 
The  powers  of  fancy  came  along. 

And  soothed  his  lengthen’d  hour  of  toil 
With  native  wit  and  sprightly  song. 

Ah  ! days  of  bliss,  too  swiftly  fled, 

When  vigorous  health  from  labor  springs, 
And  bland  contentment  smooths  the  bed, 
And  sleep  his  ready  opiate  brings ; 

And  hovering  round  on  airy  wings 
Float  the  light  forms  of  young  desire, 
That  of  unutterable  things 
The  soft  and  shadowy  hope  inspire. 

Now  spells  of  mightier  power  prepare, 

Bid  brighter  phantoms  round  him  dance : 
Let  flattery  spread  her  viewless  snare, 

And  fame  attract  his  vagrant  glance  : 

Let  sprightly  pleasure  too  advance, 

Unveil’d  her  eyes,  unclasp’d  her  zone, 
Till  lost  in  love’s  delirious  trance, 

He  scorns  the  joys  his  youth  has  known. 

Let  friendship  pour  her  brightest  blaze, 
Expanding  all  the  bloom  of  soul ; 

And  mirth  concentre  all  her  rays, 

And  point  them  from  the  sparkling  bowl, 
And  let  the  careless  moments  roll 
In  social  pleasures  unconfin’d, 

And  confidence  that  spurns  control, 

Unlock  the  inmost  springs  of  mind. 

And  lead  his  steps  those  bowers  among, 
Where  elegance  with  splendor  vies, 

Or  science  bids  her  favor’d  throng 
To  more  refin’d  sensations  rise  ; 

Beyond  the  peasant’s  humbler  joys, 

And  freed  from  each  laborious  strife 
There  let  him  learn  the  bliss  to  prize 
That  waits  the  sons  of  polish’d,  life. 

IX 


X 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  BURNS. 


Then  whilst  his  throbbing  veins  beat  high 
With  every  impulse  of  delight, 

Dash  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  joy, 

And  shroud  the  scene  in  shades  of  night ; 
And  let  despair,  with  wizard  light, 

Disclose  the  yawning  gulf  below, 

And  pour  incessant  on  his  sight, 

Her  spectred  ills  and  shapes  of  wo : 

And  show  beneath  a cheerless  shed, 

With  sorrowing  heart  and  streaming  eyes, 
In  silent  grief  where  droops  her  head, 

The  partner  of  his  early  joys  ; 

And  let  his  infant’s  tender  cries 
His  fond  parental  succor  claim, 

And  bid  him  hear  in  agonies 
A husband  and  a father’s  name. 


’Tis  done — the  powerful  charm  succeeds  ; 
His  high  reluctant  spirit  bends  ; 

In  bitterness  of  soul  he  bleeds, 

Nor  longer  with  his  fate  contends. 

An  idiot  laugh  the  welkin  rends 
As  genius  thus  degraded  lies ; 

Till  pitying  Heaven  the  veil  extends 
That  shrouds  the  Poet’s  ardent  eyes. 

Rear  high  thy  bleak,  majestic  hills, 

Thy  shelter’d  valleys  proudly  spread, 

And,  Scotia,  pour  thy  thousand  rills, 

And  wave  thy  heaths  with  blossoms  red  ; 

But  never  more  shall  poet  tread 
Thy  airy  heights,  thy  woodland  reign, 

Since  he  the  sweetest  bard  is  dead 
That  ever  breath’d  the  soothing  strain. 


DEDICATION 


OF  TUB 

SECOND  EDITION  OF  THE 

POEMS  FORMERLY  PRINTED. 


TO  THE 

NOBLEMEN  AND  GENTLEMEN  OF  THE  CALEDONIAN  HUNT. 


Mr  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 

A Scottish  Bard,  proud  of  the  name,  and 
whose  highest  ambition  is  to  sing  in  his  Coun- 
try’s service — where  shall  he  so  properly  look 
for  patronage  as  to  the  illustrious  names  of  his 
native  Land ; those  who  bear  the  honors  and  in- 
herit the  virtues  of  their  Ancestors  I The  Poetic 
Genius  of  my  Country  found  me,  as  the  proph- 
etic bard  Elijah  did  Elisha — at  the  plow;  and 
threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over  me.  She  bade 
me  sing  the  loves,  the  joys,  the  rural  scenes  and 
rural  pleasures  of  my  native  soil,  in  my  native 
tongue:  I tuned  my  wild,  artless  notes,  as  she 
inspired — She  whispered  me  to  come  to  this  an- 
cient Metropolis  of  Caledonia,  and  lay  my  Songs 
under  your  honored  protection ; I now  obey  her 
dictates. 

Though  much  indebted  to  your  goodness,  I do 
not  approach  you,  my  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  in 
the  usual  style  of  dedication,  to  thank  you  for  past 
favors ; that  path  is  so  hackneyed  by  prostituted 
learning,  that  honest  rusticity  is  ashamed  of  it. 
Nor  do  I present  this  Address  with  the  venal 
soul  of  a servile  Author,  looking  for  a continua- 
tion of  those  favors ; I was  bred  to  the  Plow,  and 
am  independent.  I come  to  claim  the  common 
Scottish  name  with  you,  my  illustrious  Country- 
men : and  to  tell  the  world  that  I glory  in  the 


title.  I come  to  congratulate  my  Country,  that 
the  blood  of  her  ancient  heroes  still  runs  uncon- 
taminated ; and  that  from  your  courage,  knowl- 
edge, and  public  spirit,  she  may  expect  protection, 
wealth,  and  liberty.  In  the  last  place,  I come  to 
proffer  my  warmest  wishes  to  the  Great  Foun- 
tain of  Honor,  the  Monarch  of  the  Universe,  for 
your  welfare  and  happiness. 

When  you  go  forth  to  waken  the  Echoes,  in 
the  ancient  and  favorite  amusement  of  your  fore- 
fathers, may  Pleasure  ever  be  of  your  party; 
and  may  Social  Joy  await  your  return.  When 
harassed  in  courts  or  camps  with  the  jostlings 
of  bad  men  and  bad  measures,  may  the  honest 
consciousness  of  injured  worth  attend  your  re- 
turn to  your  native  Seats ; and  may  Domestic 
Happiness,  with  a smiling  welcome,  meet  you  at 
your  gates!  May  corruption  shrink  at  your 
kindling,  indignant  glance ; and  may  tyranny  in 
the  Ruler,  and  licentiousness  in  the  People, 
equally  find  you  an  inexorable  foe ! 

I have  the  honor  to  be, 

With  the  sincerest  gratitude. 

And  highest  respect, 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 

Your  most  devoted  and  humble  servant, 
ROBERT  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  April  4,  1787. 


xr 


. 


. 


* 


* 

, - 

♦ 

■ 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 


Biographical  Sketch  of  the  Author, iii  ! 

On  the  Death  of  Burns,  by  Mr.  Roscoe, ix 

Preface  to  the  First  Edition  of  Burns’  Poems, 

published  at  Kilmarnock. vii 

Dedication  of  the  Second  Edition  of  the  Poems 
formerly  printed,  To  the  Noblemen  and  Gen- 
tlemen of  the  Caledouian  Hunt,-- xi 

POEMS,  CHIEFLY  SCOTTISH. 

The  Twa  Dogs,  a Tale, 1 

Scotch  Dr  nk, - 3 

The  Author's  earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to  the 
Scotch  Representatives  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons,   4 

Postcript. - - 5 

The  Holy  Fair, 5 

Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook, — — 7 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr,  a Poem  inscribed  to  J.  B , 

Esq.  Ayr, 9 

The  Ordination, — — 11 

The  Calf.  To  the  Rev.  Mr. , - 12 

Address  to  the  Deil,  - 12 

The  Death  and  Dying  Words  of  Poor  Mailie,--  13 

Poor  Mai  ie's  Elegy, 14 

To  J.  S****, 14 

A Dream, — - — — - — 16 

The  Vision, 17 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  or  the  Rigidly  Right- 
eous,  19 

Tam  Samson’s  Elegy, 20 

The  Epitaph, 21 

Halloween, - 21 

The  Auld  Farmer's  New-Year  Morning  Saluta- 
tion to  his  Auld  Mare  Maggie,  24 

To  a Mouse,  on  turning  her  up  in  her  nest  with 

the  plow,  November,  1785, 25 

A Winter  Night,  - 25 

Epistle  to  Davie,  a Brother  Poet, 26 

The  Lament,  occasioned  by  the  Unfortunate  is- 
sue of  a Friend’s  Amour, 27 

Despondency,  an  Ode, 28 

Winter,  a Dirge, 29 

The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night. 29 

Man  was  made  to  Mourn,  a Dirge, 30 

A prayer  in  the  prospect  of  Death, 31 

Stanzas  on  the  same  occasion, 31 

Verses  left  by  the  Author,  in  the  room  where  he 
slept,  having  lain  at  the  House  of  a Reverend 

Friend, 32 

The  First  Psalm, - 32 

A Prayer,  under  the  pressure  of  violent  Anguish,  32 

The  fir3t  six  verses  of  the  Ninetieth  Psalm, 32 

To  a Mountain  Daisy,  on  turning  one  down  with 

the  Plow,  in  April,  1786, 32 

To  Ruin, 33 

To  Miss  L , with  Beattie’s  Poems  as  a New 

Year’s  Gift,  Jan.  1, 1787, 33 

Epistle  to  a young  Friend, 33 

On  a Scotch’ Bard,  gone  to  the  West  Indies, 34 

To  a Haggis, 35 

A Dedication  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq., 35 

To  a Louse,  on  seeing  one  on  a Lady’s  Bonnet 

at  Church, 36 

Address  to  Edinburgh, — 36 

Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik,  an  old  Scottish  Bard, 37 

To  the  Same. 38 

To  W.  S*****n,  Ochiltree,  May,  1785, 39 

Postscript,- 40 

Epistle  to  J.  R ******,  enclosing  some  Poems,---  40 


PAGE. 


John  Barleycorn,  a Ballad, - 41 

Written  in  Friars-Carse  Hermitage,  in  Nith- 

Side, - 46 

Ode,  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Mrs. , of , 46 

Elegy  on  Capt.  Matthew  Henderson, 46 

The  Epitaph, - 47 

To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintra, 48 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn, 49 

Lines  sent  to  Sir  John  Whitefoord  of  White- 

foord,  Bart.,  with  the  foregoing  Poem, 49 

Tam  O’Shanter,  a Tale, 49 

On  seeing  a wounded  Hare  limp  by  me,  which  a 

fellow  had  just  shot  at, - 51 

Address  to  the  Shade  of  Thompson,  on  crown- 
ing his  bust  at  Ednam,  Roxburghshire,  with 

Bays, 51 

Epitaph  on  a celebrated  Ruling  Elder, 52 

On  a Noisy  Polemic, 52 

On  Wee  Johnie, - 52 

For  the  Author’s  Father, 52 

For  R.  A.,  Esq., 52 

For  G.  H.,  Esq., 52 

A Bard’s  Epitaph, - 52 

On  the  late  Captain  Grose’s  Peregrinations 
through  Scotland,  collecting  the  Antiquities 

of  that  Kingdom, 52 

To  Miss  Cruikshanks,  a very  young  Lady. 
Writtenon  the  blank  leaf  of  a Book,  presented 

to  her  by  the  Author, 53 

On  reading,  in  a Newspaper,  the  Death  of  John 
M’Leod,  Esq.,  Brother  to  a young  Lady,  a par- 
ticular Friend  of  the  Author’s, 53 

The  Humble  petition  of  Biuar  Water  to  the  No- 
ble Duke  of  Athole,  - 53 

On  scaring  some  Water-Fowl  in  Loch-Turit,  ---  54 
Written  with  a Pencil  over  the  Chimney-piece, 
in  the  Parlor  of  the  Inn  at  Kenmore,  Tay- 

mouth, 54 

Written  with  a Pencil,  standing  by  the  Fall  of 

Fyers,  near  Loch-Ness, 55 

On  the  Birth  of  a Posthumous  Child,  Born  in 
peculiar  circumstances  of  Family  Distress, — 55 

The  Whistle,  a Ballad, — --  55 

Second  Epistle  to  Davie, — 57 

Lines  on  an  Interview  with  Lord  Daer, 58 

On  the  Death  of  a Lap-Dog,  named  Echo, 59 

Inscription  to  the  Memory  of  Fergusson, 59 

Epistle  to  R.  Graham,  Esq., 60 

Fragment,  inscribed  to  the  Right  Hon.  C.  J.  Fox,  60 

To  Dr.  Blacklock, 61 

Prologue,  spoken  at  the  Theatre  Ellisland,  on 

New-Year’s  Day  Evening. 61 

Elegy  on  the  late  Miss  Burnet,  of  Monboddo, — 62 

The  Rights  of  Woman, - 62 

Address,  spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle,  on  her  Ben- 
efit Night,  Dec.  4,  1795,  at  the  Theatre,  Dum- 
fries,  63 

Verses  to  a young  Lady,  with  a present  of 

Songs, - 72 

Lines  written  on  a blank  leaf  of  a copy  of  his 

poems  presented  to  a young  Lady, - 78 

Copy  of  a Poetical  Address  to  Mr.  Wm.  Tytler,  88 

Caledonia, — 89 

Poem  written  to  a Gentleman  who  had  sent  him 
a Newspaper,  and  offered  to  continue  it  free 

of  expense. - 89 

Poem  on  Pastoral  Poetry,  - --■i - 89 

Sketch— New  Year’s  Day, 90 

Extempore,  on  the  Late  Mr.  William  Smellie,  --  91 


CONTENTS 


xiv 

PAGE. 


Poetical  Inscription  for  an  Altar  to  Indepen- 
dence, — - 01 

Sonnet,  on  the  Death  of  Robert  Riddel,  Esq.,--  91 

Monody  on  a Lady  famed  for  her  caprice, 91 

The  Epitaph, 91 

Answer  to  a mandate  sent  by  the  Surveyor  of 

the  Windows,  Carriages,  &c.,- 92 

Impromptu,  on  Mrs. ’s  Birth-day, 92 

To  a young  Lady,  Miss  Jessy , Dumfries; 

with  Books  which  the  Bard  presented  her,  — 93 
Sonnet,  written  on  the  25th  of  January,  1793,  the 
Birth  day  of  the  Author,  on  hearing  a Thrush 

Bing  in  a morning  walk, 93 

Extempore,  to  Mr.  S**e,  on  refusing  to  dine  with 

him,  - 93 

To  Mr.  S**e,  with  a present  of  a dozen  of  porter,  93 
Poem,  addressed  to  Mr.  Mitchell,  collector  of  Ex- 
cise, Dumfries,  1796, 93 

Sent  to  a Gentleman  whom  he  had  offended,  — 94 
Poem  on  Life,  addressed  to  Col.  De  Peyster, 

Dumfries, 94 

Address  to  the  Tooth-ache,  - 94 

To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of  Fintry,  on  receiv- 
ing a favor, — 95 

Epitaph  on  a Friend, 95 

A Grace  before  Dinner,— — 96 

On  Sensibility.  Addressed  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of 

Dunlop, - 96 

A Verse.  When  Death’s  dark  stream  I ferry 

o’er, - 96 

Verses  written  at  Selkirk, 97 

Liberty,  a Fragment,  - - 98 

Elegy  on  the  death  of  Robert  Ruisseaux, 98 

The  loyal  Natives’ Verses, 98 

Burns— Extempore, - - 98 

To  J.  Lapraik,--- - 98 

To  the  Rev.  John  M’Math,  enclosing  a copy  of 
Holy  Willie’s  Prayer,  which  he  had  requested,  99 
To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  Mauchline,  recom- 
mending a Boy, - 100 

To  Mr.  M’Adam,  of  Craigen-Gillan, — 100 

To  Capt.  Riddel,  Glenriddel, 100 

To  Terraughty,  on  his  Birth-day, 100 

To  a Lady,  with  a present  of  a pair  of  drinking- 

glasses, 101 

The  Vowels,  a Tale, - 101 

Sketch, - 101 

Scots  Prologue,  for  Mr.  Sutherland’s  Benefit,  --  101 
Extemporaneous  Effusion  on  being  appointed  to 

the  Excise, 102 

On  seeing  the  beautiful  seat  of  Lord  G., 102 

On  the  same,-- - 102 

On  the  same, 102 

To  the  same,  on  the  Author  being  threatened 

with  his  resentment, 102 

The  Dean  of  Faculty, - - 102 

Extempore  in  the  Court  of  Session, 102 

Verses  to  J.  Ranken, — 103 

On  hearing  that  there  was  falsehood  in  the  Rev. 

Dr.  B ’s  very  looks, - 103 

On  a Schoolmaster  in  Cleish  Parish.  Fifeshire,--  103 

Elegy  on  the  Year  1788,  a Sketch, — - 103 

Verses  written  under  the  Portrait  of  Fergusson, 

the  Poet, — 103 

The  Guidwife  of  Wauchope-house  to  Robert 

Burns, - 112 

The  Answer, - - 112 

The  Kirk’s  Alarm,  a Satire, - 116 

The  Twa  Herds, 117 

Epistle  from  a Tailor  to  Robert  Burns, 118 

The  Answer, : 119 

Letter  to  John  Goudie,  Kilmarnock,  on  the  pub- 
lication of  his  Essays, 119 

Letter  to  J—sT 1 G1 nc r, 119 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  James  Hunter  Blair, — - — 120 

The  Jolly  Beggars,  a Cantata 121 

Glossary 140 


SONGS. 

A. 

Adieu!  a heart-warm,  fond  adieu ! 45 

Adown  winding  Nith  I did  wander, 69 

Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever, — 107 


PAGE. 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees,  — 44 

A Highland  lad  my  love  was  born, 122 

Altho’  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir,--- Ill 

Amangthe  trees  where  humming  bees, 110 

An  O,  for  ane  and  twenty,  Tam  ! 84 

Ance  mair  I hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December  !-  86 

Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire — - 53 

A rose-bud  by  my  early  walk,— 81 

As  I cam  in  by  our  gate-end, 113 

As  I stood  by  yon  roofless  tower,- 88 


As  I was  a-wandering  ae  mfirning  in  spring, — 111 
Awa  wi’ your  witchcraft  o’ beauty’s  alarms 39 

B. 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows,- 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive, 

Beyond  thee,  dearie,  beyond  thee,  dearie,  — 

Blithe,  blithe  and  merry  was  she,  --- 

Blithe  hae  I been  on  yon  hill, — 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go, - 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing,- 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green, 

By  Allan  stream  I chanced  to  rove, - 

By  yon  castle  wa’,  at  the  close  of  the  day,  - 


C. 

Ca’  the  yowes  to  the  knowe3, 72 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  1 75 

Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul, 81 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast, 69 

Comin  thro’  the  rye,  poor  body,  - 98 

Contented  wi’  little,  and  cantie  wi’  mair, 75 

Could  aught  of  song  declare  my  pains, 114 

D. 

Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure, 71 

Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat  1 93 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo, 64 

F 

Fair  the  face  of  orient  day, 114 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks,  — 79 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and 

ye  skies, - 62 

Farewell,  thou  stream  that  winding  flows, 74 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 108 

Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped, 87 

First  when  Maggie  was  my  care, 108 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 

braes, - 86 

Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 78 

From  the,  Eliza,  I must  go, - 45 

G. 

Gane  is  the  day,  and  mirk’s  the  night, 83 

Go  fetch  to  me  a pint  o’  wine, — 104 

Green  grows  the  rashes,  O ! — 44 


H. 

Had  I a cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore, 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 

Here’s  a bottle  and  an  honest  friend, 

Here’s  a health  to  ane  I lo’e  dear, 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here  is  the  glen,  and  liere  the  bower, 

Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven’s  wing, 

How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 

How  cruel  are  the  parents,  - 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night, - 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear-winding 

Devon 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife, 


I am  a bard  of  no  regard, — 123 

I am  a fiddler  to  my  trade, * 122 

I am  a son  of  Mars, - - 121 

I do  confess  thou  art  so  fair, 105 

I dream’d  I lay  where  flowers  were  springing,-  104 

I gaed  a waefu’  gate  yestreen,-- - 83 

I hae  a wife  o’  my  ain, 59 

I’ll  ay  ca*  in  by  yon  town — 107 

I’ll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 108 

In  simmer  when  the  hay  was  mawn,- ----  84 

I once  was  a maid  tho’  I cannot  tell  when, 121 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty, 75 


68 

66 

108 

79 

111 

71 
111 

72 
77 

73 


....  43 
— - 70 
— - 105 

80 

67 

....  79 

84 

— - 73 

69 

62 


CONTENTS 


XV 


PAGE. 


In  Mauchline  there  dwells  six  proper  young 

belles,— 114 

It  is  na.  Jean,  thy  bonnie  face, 71 

It  was  upon  a Lammas  night.- 42 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, — 74 

J. 

Jockey’s  ta’en  the  parting  kiss, — 95 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 83 

K. 

Ken  ye  ought  o’  Captain  Grose  1- 95 

L. 

Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white  locks, - 74 

Last  May  a braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang  glen,  78 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear, 122 

Let  not  woman  e’er  complain — — 73 

Long,  long  the  night, 76 

Loud  blaw  the  frosty  breezes, 80 

Louis,  what  reck  I by  thee, 87 

M. 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion, 77 

Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean, 80 

My  bonnie  lass,  I work  in  brass, 123 

My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves, 73 

My  father  was  a farmer  upon  the  Carrick  bor- 
der, O, - - 106 

My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  Tittie,  - 83 

My  heart ’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here, 105 

My  heart  is  sair,  I dare  na  tell, 87 

My  lady’s  gown,  there’s  gairs  upon’t, 113 

My  Peggy’s  face,  my  Peggy’s  form, 95 

N. 

Nae  gentle  dames,  tho’  e’er  sae  fair, — — 92 

No  churchman  am  I for  to  rail  and  to  write, 45 

Now  bank  and  brae  are  claith’d  in  green 107 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  nature  arrays,-  75 

Now  nature  bangs  her  mantle  green, 47 

Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi’  flowers, 69 

Now  spring  has  cloth’d  the  groves  in  green, 77 

Now  weslin  winds  and  slaughtering  guns, 43 

O. 

O ay  my  wife  she  dang  me, 114 

O bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier,  — 78 

O cam  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun, — 90 

Of  a’  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 82 

O gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 68 

O guid  ale  comes,  and  guid  ale  goes. 114 

O how  can  I be  blithe  and  glad, 107 

Oh,  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show, 66 

Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, - 92 

O ken  ye  wha  Meg  o’  the  Mill  has  gotten 67 

O lassie,  art  thou  sleepin  yet  ? — 76 

O leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles, 114 

O leeze  me  on  my  spinning  wheel, — 84 

O Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide,  — — 67 

O lovely  Polly  Stewart, 113 

O luve  will  venture  in,  where  it  daur  na  weel  be 

seen, — 85 

O Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 65 

O May.  thy  morn  was  ne’er  sa  sweet, 87 

O meikle  thinks  my  luve  o’  my  beauty, 83 

O mirk,  mirk  is  the  midnight  hour, 65 

O my  luve’s  like  a red,  red  rose, 88 

On  a bank  of  flowers,  one  summer’s  day, 115 

On  Cessnock  banks  there  lives  a lass, 108 

One  night  as  I did  wander, 110 

O,  once  I lov’d  a bonnie  lass,  — 59 

O Philly,  happy  be  the  day, — 74 

O poortith  cauld,  and  restless  love, 65 

O raging  fortune’s  withering  blast, - Ill 

O saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley. 64 

O saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  1 73 

O stay,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay, 76 

O tell  na  me  o’  wind  and  rain, 76 

O,  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 77 

O Tibbie,  I hae  seen  the  day,  81 

O,  wat  ye  wha’s  in  yon  town, 88 

O,  were  I on  Parnassus’  hill ! 82 

O wha  is  she  that  lo’es  me, 94 

O wha  my  babie-clouts  will  buy  I — 105 


page. 


O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad, 69 

O,  Willie  brew'd  a peck  o’  maut, — 82 

O wilt  thou  go  wi’  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar,---  113 
O why  the  deuce  should  I repine, 124 

P. 

Powers  celestial,  whose  protection, 109 

R. 

Raving  winds  around  her  blowing, 80 

Robin  shure  in  hairst,  - 113 

S. 

Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, — 72 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, — 96 

Scots  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 70 

See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 124 

She’s  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my  smart,  — --  86 

She  is  a winsome  wee  thing, 64 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, — — 70 

Sir  Wisdom’s  a fool  when  he’s  fou, 122 

Sleep’st  thou,  or  wak’st  thou,  fairest  creature,--  73 

Slow  spreads  the  gloom  my  soul  desires, 115 

Stay,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  1 80 

Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains, 58 

Sweet  fa’s  the  eve  on  Craigie-burn, 75 

Sweetest  May,  let  love  inspire  thee,  — 107 

T. 

The  bairns  gat  out  wi’  an  unco  shout, 114 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 82 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns,-- 81 

The  deil  cam  fiddling  thro’  the  town, 109 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath’ring  fast, - 44 

The  heather  was  blooming,  the  meadows  were 

mawn, * 109 

The  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the  hill,  - 82 

The  lovely  lass  o’  Inverness, 87 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves  re- 
turning,  — - 59 

The  smiling  spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 87 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea,--- 83 

The  winter  it  is  past,  and  the  simmer  comes  at 

last, — - Ill 

Their  groves  o’  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 

reckon, 76 

There’s  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon  glen,  64 
There’s  a youth  in  this  city,  it  were  a great  pity,  104 

There’s  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 65 

There  was  a bonnie  lass,  and  a bonnie,  bonnie 

lass, 113 

There  was  a lad  was  born  at  Kyle, 110 

There  was  a lass,  and  she  was  fair, 68 

There  were  five  carlins  in  the  South, 115 

Thickest  night  o’erhang  my  dwelling, 80 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 71 

Tho’  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part, - 107 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie, 70 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  less’ning  ray,  - - 58 

To  thee,  lov’d  Nith,  thy  gladsome  plains, 111 

True  hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  of  Yarrow,  66 

Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 85 

’Twas  even,  the  dewy  fields  were  green, 57 

’Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  e’e  was  my  ruin, 77 

U. 

Up  in  the  morning’s  no  for  me, — 104 

W. 

Wae  is  my  heart  and  the  tear’s  in  my  e’e, 109 

Wee  Willie  Gray,  and  hi3  leather  wallet, 114 

Wha  is  this  at  my  bower  door  ? 106 

What  can  a young  lassie,  what  shall  a young 

lassie, -j 84 

When  first  I came  ro  Stewart  Kyle,-—---- Ill 

When  Guilford  g^od  our  pilot  stood, 42 

When  o’er  the  MU  the  eastern  star,- 63 

When  January  winds  were  blawing  cauld, 116 

When  wild  vvar’s  deadly  blast  was  blawn,-— — 66 
Where  arc  the  joys  I hae  met  in  the  morning,  — 70 

Where  braving  angry  winter’s  storms, 81 

Where  Cart  rins  rowin  to  the  sea,  — 87 


Why,  why  tell  thy  lover, 79 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary,— - 63 

Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed, 86 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  1 86 


CONTENTS 


xvi 


PAGE. 

Ye  banks  and  braes,  and  streams,  around, 64 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o’  bonnie  Doon, 85 

Ye  flowery  banks  o’  bonnie  Doon, 85 


Ye  gallants  bright  I red  you  right, 104 

Yestreen  I had  a pint  o’  wine, 109 


PAGE. 


Yon  wand’ring  rill,  that  marks  the  hill,  113 

Yon  wild  mossy  mountains, 105 

Young  Jockey  was  the  blithest  lad, 108 

Young  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  lass, 110 

You’re  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier, 103 


CONTENTS 


OF 


THE  ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


PAGE. 


Holy  Willie’s  Prayer, 127 

The  Farewell, 127 

Willie  Chalmers, 128 

Lines  written  on  a Bank-Note, 128 

A Bard’s  Epitaph, — 128 

Epistle  to  Major  Logan, — .... - - 129 

On  the  Death  of  Robert  Dundas,  Esq., 129 

Epistle  to  Hugh  Parker, 130 

To  John  M’Murdo,  Esq., 130 

Epistle  to  Robert  Graham,  Esq., 130 

Address  of  Beelzebub  to  the  President  of  the 

Highland  Society, — 131 

To  John  Taylor, — 131 

On  seeing  Miss  Fontenelle  in  a favorite  charac- 
ter,   132 

The  Book-Worms, 132 

The  Reproof, 132 

The  Reply, 132 

The  Kirk  of  Lamington, 132 

The  League  and  Covenant, 132 

Inscription  on  a Goblet, 132 

The  Toad-Eater, - 132 

The  Selkirk  Grace, — - 132 

On  the  Poet’s  Daughter,-- 132 

The  Sons  of  Old  Killie, — 132 

On  a Suicide, — 132 

The  Joyful  Widower, 133 

There  was  a Lass, 133 


Jr  AlrJS- 

Theniel  Menzie’s  Bonnie  Mary, 133 

Frae  the  Friends  and  Land  I love, 133 

Weary  Fa’  You,  Duncan  Gray, 133 

The  Blude  Red  Rose  at  Yule  may  blaw, 134 

The  Ploughman, — --  134 

Rattlin’,  Roarin’  Willie, 134 

As  I was  a-wandering, — 135 

My  Harry  was  a Gallant  Gay, — 135 

Simmer’s  a Pleasant  Time, 135 

When  Rosy  May, - 135 

Lady  Mary  Ann, 135 

My  Love,  she's  but  a Lassie  yet, — - 136 

Sensibility  how  Charming, 136 

Out  over  the  Forth, — 136 

The  Tither  Morn, , 136 

The  Cardin’  o’t, 137 

The  Weary  Pund  o’  Tow, — 137 

Sae  Far  Awa, 137 

Such  a Parcel  of  Rogues  in  a Nation, 137 

Here’s  His  Health  in  Water! 137 

The  Lass  of  Ecclefechan, 138 

The  Highland  Laddie, 138 

Here’s  to  thy  Health,  my  Bonnie  Lass,  — 138 

Address  to  a Young  Lady,  138 

Song, - 138 

O Lay  thy  Loof  in  Mine,  Lass, 138 

To  Chloris, 139 

Peg-a  Ramsey, 139 


POEMS, 

CHIEFLY  SCOTTISH 


THE  TWA  DOGS. 

A TALE. 

Twas  in  that  place  o’  Scotland’s  isle, 

1 hat  bears  the  name  o’  Auld  Kins  Coil, 
a bonme  day  in  June, 

When  wearing  thro’  the  afternoon, 

Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame, 
r orgather  d ance  upon  a time. 

The  first  I ’ll  name,  they  ca’d  him  Ccesar, 
Was  keepit  for  his  Honour’s  pleasure: 

His  hair  his  size,  his  month,  his  lugs, 
bhow  d he  was  nane  o’  Scotland’s  dogs: 

but  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 

Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

,etter’d.  braw  brass  collar, 
Show  d him  the  gentleman  and  scholar: 
but  though  he  was  o’  high  degree, 

1 he  fient  a pride,  na  pride  ha3  he  : 
buj  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin, 
bv  n wi  a tinkler-gypsey’s  messin. 

At  kirk  or  market,  mill  orsmiddie, 

Hae  tawted  tyke,  tho’  e’er  sae  duddie, 
but  he  wad  stawn’t,  as  glad  to  see  him, 

And  stroan  t on  stane  an’  hillocks  wi’  him. 

I he  tither  was  a ploughman’s  collie, 

A rhyming,  ranting,  raving  billie, 
a j - , “is  friend  an’  comrade  had  him. 

And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca’d  him, 

Atter  some  dog  in  Highland  sang,1" 

Was  made  lang  syne— Lord  knows  how  Iang. 

He  was  a gash  an’  faithfu’  tyke. 

As  ever  lap  a sheugh  or  dyke. 

His  honest,  sonsie,  baws’nt  face, 

Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 

wli'rTSJ  Wa,s  white»  his  towzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi  coat  o’  glossy  black ; 

His  gawcie  tail,  wi’  upward  curl, 

Hung  o er  his  hurdies  wi’  a swurl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o’  ither, 

An,  unco  pack  an  thick  thegither  • 
w,  social  nose  whyles  snuff'd  and  snowkit, 
Whyles  mice  an  moudieworts  they  howkit  • 
Whyles  scour'd  awa’  in  iang  excursion,  ’ 
An  worry  d lfher  in  diversion  ; 

Until  wi  daffin  weary  grown 
Upon  a knowe  they  sat  them  down, 

And  there  began  a lang  digression 
About  the  lords  o'  the  creation. 

Cuchullin’s  dog  in  Oasian’s  Fingal. 


C2ESAR. 

„/’ve  aflen  wonder’d,  honest  Luath, 

What  sort  o life  poor  dogs  like  you  have ; 
wu  when  the  gentry’s  life  I saw, 

W hat  way  poor  bodies  liv’d  ava. 

Our  Laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents, 

His  coals,  his  kain,  and  a’  his  stents ; 

He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel ; 

His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 

He  oa  s his  coach,  he  ca’s  his  horse : 

He  draws  a bonnie  silken  purse 
As  lang  s my  tail  whare,  thro’  the  steeks, 

I he  yellow  letter’d  Geordie  keeks. 

AtFw^-m°rn  t0  ?’en  r ’s  nought  but  toiling, 
At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling ; b 

An  tho  the  gentry  first  are  stechin, 

Yet  ev  n the  ha’  folk  fill  their  pechan 
Wi  sauce  ragouts,  and  siclike  trashtrie, 

oIlr  Wk't  e sh.ort  °’  downright  wastrie. 

)ur  Whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner, 

Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a dinner 
better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  Honour  has  in  a’  the  lan’ : 

An  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 
l own  it  s past  my  comprehension. 

luath. 

a T,TthL  C^ar’-  why,es  they?re  fash’t  eneu^h 
A cottar  howkin  in  a sheugh,  * 

Wi  dirty  stanes  biggina  dyke, 
baring  a quarry,  and  sic  like, 

Himself,  a wife,  he  thus  sustains, 

A smytrie  o’  wee  duddie  weans, 

An  nought  but  his  han’  darg,  to  keep 
1 hem  right  and  tight  in  thack  an’  rape. 

T it?!  whe^ ‘bey  meet  wi’  sair  disasters, 

Like  loss  o health,  or  want  o’  masters, 

Ye  maist  wad  think  a wee  touch  langer, 

An  they  maun  starve  o’  cauld  an’  hunger- 
But  how  it  comes,  I never  kenn’d  yet,g 
} y r?  maistly-  wonderfu’  contented  ; 
aPo  bui^d)y  chiels,  an’  clever  hizzies, 

Are  bred  in  sic  a way  as  this  is. 

CjESAR. 

But  then  to  see  how  ye’re  neirleckif 
Hovv  huff’d,  and  cuff d,  and  dTsfespeckit ! 

U d,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
^ or  delvers,  ditchers,  an’  sic  cattle  : 

1 hey  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  fo’k, 

As  J wad  by  a stinking  brock. 


2 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


I’ve  notic’d,  on  our  Laird’s  court-day, 

An’  mony  a time  my  heart’s  been  wae, 

Poor  tenant  bodies  scant  o’  cash, 

How  they  maun  thole  a factor’s  snash : 

He’ll  stamp  an’  threaten,  curse  an’  swear, 
He’ll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear; 
While  they  maun  staun’,  wi’  aspect  humble. 
An’  hear  it  a’,  an’  fear  an’  tremble. 

I see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches ; 

But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches ! 

LUATH. 

They’re  nae  sae  wretched’s  ane  wad  think: 
Tho’  constantly  on  poortith’s  brink: 

They’re  sae  accustom’d  wi’  the  sight, 

The  view  o’t  gies  them  little  fright. 

Then  chance  an’  fortune  are  sae  guided, 
They’re  ay  in  less  or  mair  provided ; 

An’  tho’  fatigu’d  wi’  close  employment, 

A blink  o’  rest’s  a sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o’  their  lives, 

Their  grushie  weans  an’  faithfu’  wives  ; 

The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 

That  sweetens  a’  their  fire-side. 

An’  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o’  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy  ; 

They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 

To  mend  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs : 

They’ll  talk  o’  patronage  and  priests, 

Wi’  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts, 

Or  tell  what  new  taxations  comin, 

An’  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon' on. 

As  bleak-fac’d  Hallowmass  returns, 

They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns, 

When  rural  life,  o’  ev’ry  station, 

Unite  in  common  recreation  ; 

Love  blinks,  Wit  slaps,  an’  social  Mirth, 
Forgets  there’s  Care  upo’  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds ; 

'The  nappy  reeks  wi’  mantling  ream, 

An’  sheds  a heart-inspiring  steam ; 
rThe  luntin  pipe,  an’  sneeshin  mill, 

Are  handed  round  wi’  richt  guid  will : 

The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse, 

The  young  anes  rantin  thro’  the  house, — 

My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 

That  I for  joy  hae  barkit  wi’  them. 

Still  it’s  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said, 

Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  play’d. 

There’s  monie  a creditable  stock, 

O’  decent,  honest,  fawsont  fo’k, 

Are  riven  out  baith  root  and  branch, 

Some  rascal’s  pridefu’  greed  to  quench, 

Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel  the  faster 
In  favor  wi’  some  gentle  master, 

Wha,  aiblins.  thrang  a-parliamentin, 

For  Britain’s  guid  his  saul  indentin — 

CjESAR. 

Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it; 

For  Britain's  guid  ! guid  faith  ! I doubt  it ; 
Say  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him, 

An’  saying  aye  or  no's  they  bid  him, 

At  operas  an’  plays  parading, 

Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading; 

Or  may  be,  in  a frolic  daft, 

To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a waft. 

To  make  a tour,  an’  take  a whirl, 

To  learn  bon  ton , an’  see  the  warl’. 


There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 

He  rives  his  father’s  auld  entails  ; 

Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  rout, 

To  thrum  guitars,  and  fecht  wi’  nowt; 

Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 

Wh-re-hunting  among  groves  o’  myrtles ; 

Then  bouses  drumly  German  water, 

To  mak  himsel  look  fair  and  fatter, 

An’  clear  the  consequential  sorrows, 

Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 

For  Britain's  guid  ! for  her  destruction  ! 

Wi’  dissipation,  feud,  an’  faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech  man  ! dear  Sirs ! is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a braw  estate ! 

Are  we  sae  foughten  an’  harass’d 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last ! 

O would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 

An1  please  themsels  wi’  kintra  sports, 

It  wad  for  ev’ry  ane  be  better, 

The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  and  the  Cotter  ! 

For  thae  frank,  rantin,  ramblin  billies, 

Fient  haet  o’  them’s  ill-hearted  fellows ; 

Except  for  breakin  o’  their  timmer, 

Or  speakin  lightly  o’  their  limmer, 

Or  shootin  o’  a hare  or  moor-cock, 

The  ne’er  a bit  they’re  ill  to  poor  folk. 

But  will  ye  tell  me,  Master  Ccesar, 

Sure  great  folk’s  life’s  a life  o’  pleasure  ? 

Nae  cauld  nor  hunger  e’er  can  steer  them, 

The  vera  thought  o’t  need  na  fear  them. 

CJESAR. 

L — d,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I am. 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne’er  envy  ’em. 

It’s  true  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat, 

Thro’  winter’s  cauld,  or  simmer’s  heat ; 
They’ve  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
An’  fill  auld  age  wi’  gripes  an’  granes : 

But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 

For  a’  their  colleges  and  schools, 

That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 

They  make  enow  themselves  to  vex  them  ; 

An’  ay  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them, 

In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 

A country  fellow  at  the  pleugh, 

His  acres  till’d,  he’s  right  eneugh ; 

A kintra  lassie  at  her  wheel, 

Her  dizzens  done,  she’s  unco  weel : 

But  Gentlemen,  an’  Ladies  warst, 

Wi’  ev’ndown  want  o’  wark  are  curst. 

They  loiter,  lounging,  lank  an’  lazy ; 

Tho’  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy; 

Their  days,  insipid,  dull  an’  tasteless ; 

Their  nights  unquiet,  lang  an’  restless ; 

An’  e’en  their  sports,  their  balls  an’  races, 
Their  galloping  thro’  public  places. 

There’s  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an’  art, 

The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart, 

The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches, 

Then  sowther  a’  in  deep  debauches ; 

Ae  night  they’re  mad  wi’  drink  an’  wh-ring, 
Niest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  Ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 

As  great  and  gracious  a’  as  sisters  ; 

But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o’  ither, 

They’re  a’  run  deils  an’  jads  thegither. 

Whyles  o’er  the  wee  bit  cup  an’  platie, 

They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty ; 

Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi’  crabbit  leuks, 


3 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Pore  owre  the  devil’s  pictur’d  beuks ; 

Stake  on  a chance  a farmer’s  stackyard. 

An’  cheat  like  onie  unhang’d  blackguard. 

There's  some  exception,  man  an’  woman  ; 
But  this  is  Gentry’s  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o’  sight, 

An’  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night ! 

The  bum-clock  humm’d  wi’  lazy  drone  ; 

The  kye  stood  rowtin  i’  the  loan ; 

When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs, 
Rejoiced  they  were  na  men,  but  dogs; 

An’  each  took  aff  his  several  way, 

Resolv'd  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


SCOTCH  DRINK. 

Gie  him  strong  drink,  until  he  wink, 

That’s  sinking  in  despair  ; 

An’  liquor  guid  to  fire  his  bluid, 

That’s  press’d  wi’  grief  an’  care  ; 

There  let  him  bouse,  an’  deep  carouse, 

Wi’  bumpers  flowing  o’er, 

Till  he  forgets  his  loves  or  debts. 

An’  minds  his  griefs  no  more. 

Solomon’s  Proverbs  xxxi.  6,  7. 

Let  other  poets  raise  a fracas 

’Bout  vines,  an’  wines,  an’  drunken  Bacchus, 

An’  crabbit  names  an’  stories  wrack  us, 

...  -Am1  grate  our  lug, 

1 sing  the  juice  Scots  bear  can  mak  us, 

In  glass  or  jug. 

tt0U’  P1 y se  \ guid  auld  Scotch  Drink, 

W hether  thro’  wimpling  worms  thou  jink, 

Or,  richly  brown,  ream  o’er  the  brink, 

In  glorious  faem, 

Inspire  me,  till  I lisp  and  wink, 

To  sing  thy  name  ! 

Let  husky  Wheat  the  laughs  adorn, 

An’  Aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn, 

An’  Pease  and  Beans  at  e’en  or  morn, 

Perfume  the  plain, 

Lee ze  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o’  grain ! 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood, 

In  souple  scones,  the  wale  o’  food, 

Or  tumblin  in  the  boiling  flood 

Wi’ kail  an’ beef ; 

But  when  thou  pours  thy  strong  heart’s  blood, 
There  thou  shines  chief. 

Food  fills  the  wame,  an’  keeps  us  livin  ; 

Tho’  life’s  a gift  no  worth  receiven, 

When  heavy  dragg’d  wi’  pine  an’  grievin, 

rpi  V.  1 But  ?il  d bX  thee’ 

1 he  wheels  o life  gae  down-hill,  screvin, 

Wi’  rattlin  glee. 

Thou  clears  the  head  o’  doited  Lear ; 

Thou  cheers  the  heart  o’  droopin  Care; 

Thou  strings  the  nerves  o’  Labor  sair, 

, At’s  weary  toil, 

I hou  even  brightens  dark  Despair 

Wi’  gloomy  smile. 

Aft,  clad  in  massy  siller  weed, 

Wi’  Gentles  thou  erects  thy  head  ; 

Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o’  need, 

Tr.  , The  poor  man’s  wine ; 

Ills  wee  drap  parntch.  or  his  bread, 

Thou  kitchens  fine. 


Thou  art  the  life  o’  public  haunts; 

But  thee,  what  were  our  fairs  and  rants  ? 
Ev’n  godly  meeting  o’  the  saunts, 

By  thee  inspir’d. 
When  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents, 

Are  doubly  fir’d. 


That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 

O sweetly  then  thou  reams  the  horn  in ! 
Or  reekin  on  a New-year  morning 
In  cog  or  bicker. 

An’  just  a wee  drap  sp’ritual  burn  in, 

An’  gusty  sucker ! 

When  Vulcan  gives  his  bellows  breath, 
An’  ploughmen  gather  wi’  their  graith, 

0 rare  ! to  see  thee  fizz  an  freath 


Then  Burnewin * comes  on  TS  e death 
At  every  chaup. 

Nae  mercy,  then,  for  aim  or  steel; 

The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chiel, 
Brings  hard  owrehip,  wi’  sturdy  wheel, 
rp.,, , , . , The  strong  forehammer, 

1 ill  block  an  studdie  ring  an’  reel 

Wi’  dinsome  clamor. 


When  skirlin  weanies  see  the  light, 
Thou  maks  the  gossips  clatter  bright, 

How  fumblin  cuifs  their  dearies  slight ; 

,T  , Wae  worth  the  name ! 

JN  ae  howdie  gets  a social  night 

Or  plack  frae  them. 
When  neebors  anger  at  a plea, 

An’  just  as  wud  as  vvud  can  be, 

How  easy  can  the  barley  bree 
T , , Cement  the  quarrel ! . 

it  s aye  the  cheapest  lawyer’s  fee 

To  taste  the  barrel. 

Alake ! that  e’er  my  Muse  has  reason 
1 o wyte  her  countrymen  wi’  treason  ! 

But  monie  daily  weet  their  weason 
. ,,  ,,  Wi’ liquors  nice, 

An  hardly,  in  a winter’s  season, 

E’er  spier  her  price. 

Wae  worth  that  brandy  burning  trash  ! 
f ell  source  o’  monie  a pain  an’  brash, 

I wins  monie  a poor,  doylt,  drunken  hash, 

. , O’  half  his  days, 

An  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland’s  cash 
To  her  warst  faes. 


Ye  Scots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well 
Y e chief,  to  you  my  tale  I tell, 

P oor  plackless  deevils  like  mysel ! 

, , It  sets  you  ill, 

Wi  bitter,  dearthfu’  wines  to  mell, 

Or  foreign  gill. 

May  gravels  round  his  blather  wrench, 
An’  gouts  torment  him  inch  by  inch, 

Who  twists  his  gruntle  wi’  a glunch 
O’  sour  disdain, 

Out  owre  a glass  o’  whisky  punch 

Wi’  honest  men. 


0 Whisky  ; saul  o’  plays  an’  pranks  ! 
Accept  a Bardie’s  humble  thanks ! 

When  wanting  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 
Are  my  poor  verses ! 

1 hou  comes— they  rattle  i’  their  ranks 
At  ither’s  a — s ! 


* Burnewin  — bur n-the- wind  — the  Blacksmith— an 
appropriate  title.  E. 


4 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Thee,  Ferintosh ! O sadly  lost! 

Scotland,  lament  frae  coast  to  coast ! 

Now  colic  grips,  an’  barkin  hoast 
May  kill  us  a’; 

For  royal  Forbes’  charter’d  boast 
Is  ta’en  awa ! 

Thae  curst  horse-leeches  o’  the  Excise, 
Wha  mak  the  Whisky  Stells  their  prize! 
Haud  up  thy  han’,  Deil  ! ance,  twice,  thrice! 

There,  seize  the  blinkers  ! 
And  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies 

For  poor  d — n’d  drinkers. 

Fortune  ! if  thou’ll  but  gie  me  still 
Hale  breeks,  a scone  and  Whisky  gill, 

An’  rowth  o’  ryme  to  rave  at  will, 

Tak  a’  the  rest, 

An’  deal’t  about  as  thy  blind  skill 

Directs  thee  best. 


THE  author’s 

EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER* 

TO  THE 

SCOTCH  REPRESENTATIVES 
IN  THE 

HOUSE  OF  COMMONS. 

Dearest  of  Distillation  ! last  and  best 

How  art  thou  lost  "1 — Parody  on  Milton. 

Ye  Irish  Lords,  ye  Knights  an’  Squires, 

Wha  represent  our  brughs  an’  shires, 

An’  doucely  manage  our  affairs 

In  parliament, 

To  you  a simple  Poet’s  prayers 

Are  humbly  sent. 

Alas  ! my  roupet  Muse  is  hearse  ! 

Your  honors’  hearts  wi’  grief  ’twad  pierce, 

To  see  her  sittin  on  her  a — 

Low  i’  the  dust, 

An’  scriechin  out  prosaic  verse, 

An’  like  to  brust ! 

Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction, 
Scotland  an’  me's  in  great  affliction, 

E’er  sin’  they  laid  that  curst  restriction, 

On  Aquavitoe; 

An’  rouse  them  up  to  strong  conviction, 

An’  move  their  pity. 

Stand  forth,  an’  tell  yon  Premier  Youth, 

The  honest,  open,  naked  truth  : 

Tell  him  o’  mine  an’  Scotland’s  drouth, 

His  servants  humble! 

The  muckle  deevil  blaw  ye  south, 

If  ye  dissemble  ! 

Does  ony  great  man  glunch  an’  gloom  ? 

Speak  out,  an’  never  fash  your  thumb  ! 

Let  posts  an’  pensions  sink  or  soom 

Wi’  them  wha  grant  'em  : 

If  honestly  they  canna  come, 

Far  better  want  ’em. 

In  gath’ring  votes  you  were  na  slack ; 

Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack ; 

* This  was  written  before  the  act  anent  the  Scotch 
Distilleries,  of  session  1786 ; for  which  Scotland  and 
the  Author  return  their  most  grateful  thanks. 


Ne’er  claw  your  lug,  an’  fidge  your  back, 
An’  hum  an’  haw ; 

But  raise  your  arm,  an’  tell  your  crack 
Before  them  a’. 

Paint  Scotland  greeting  owre  her  thrissle ; 
Her  mutchkin  stoop  as  toom’s  a whissle : 
An’ d — mn’d  Excisemen  in  a bussle, 

Seizin  a Stell, 

Triumphant  crushin’t  like  a mussel, 

Or  lampit  shell. 

Then  on  the  titter  hand  present  her, 

A blackguard  Smuggler  right  behint  her, 
An’  cheek-for-chow,  a chuffie  Yintner, 
Colleaguing  join, 
Picking  her  pouch  as  bare  as  winter 
Of  a’  kind  coin. 

Is  there,  that  bears  the  name  o’  Scot, 

But  feels  his  heart’s  bluid  rising  hot, 

To  see  his  poor  auld  Mither’s  pot 

Thus  dung  in  staves, 
An’  plunder’d  o’  her  hindmost  groat 

By  gallows  knaves  ? 

Alas!  I’m  but. a nameless  wight, 

Trode  i’  the  mire  clean  out  o’  sight ; 

But  could  I like  Montgomeries  fight, 

Or  gab  like  Boswell ; 

There’s  some  sark-necks  I wad  draw  tight, 
An’  tie  some  hose  well. 

God  bless  your  Honors,  can  ye  see’t, 

The  kind,  auld,  cantie  Carlin  greet, 

An’  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet, 

An’  gar  them  hear  it, 
An’  tell  them  wi’  a patriot  heat, 

Y e winna  bear  it ! 

Some  o’  you  nicely  ken  the  laws, 

To  round  the  period,  an’  pause, 

An’  wi’  rhetoric  clause  on  clause 

T o mak  harangues ; 
Then  echo  thro’  Saint  Stephen’s  wa’s 

Auld  Scotland’s  wrang3. 

Dempster,  a true  blue  Scot,  I’se  warran  ; 
The  aith-detesting,  chaste  Kilkerran  ;* 

An’  that  glib-gabbet  Highland  Baron, 

The  Laird  o’  Graham, t 
An’  ane,  a chap  that’s  d — m’nd  auldfarran, 
Dundas  his  name. 

Erskine,  a spunlue  Norland  billie ; 

True  Campbells,  Frederic  an’  Ilay  ; 

An’  Livingstone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie ; 

An’  monie  ithers 

Whom  auld  Demosthenes  or  Tully 

Might  cwn  for  brithers. 

Arouse,  my  boys ! exert  your  mettle, 

To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle  ; 

Or  faith  ! I’ll  wad  my  new  pleugh-pettle, 
Ye’ll  see’t,  or  lang, 
She’ll  teach  you,  wi’  a reekin  whittle, 
Anither  sang. 

This  while  she’s  been  in  crankous  mood. 
Her  lost  Militia  fired  her  bluid ; 

(Deil  na  they  never  mair  do  guid, 

Play’d  her  that  pliskie!) 
An’  now  she’s  like  to  rin  red-wud 

About  her  Whisky. 

* Sir  Adam  Ferguson.  E. 

f The  present  Duke  of  Montrose.  (1800) 


5 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


An1  L — d,  if  ance  they  pit  her  till’t, 

Her  tartan  petticoat  she’ll  kilt, 

An’  durk  an’  pistol  at  her  belt, 

. , She’ll  tak  the  streets. 

An’  nn  her  whittle  to  the  hilt, 

I’  th’  first  she  meets ! 

For  G— d sake,  Sirs  ! then  speak  her  fair, 
An’  straik  her  cannie  wi’  the  hair, 

An’  to  the  muckle  house  repair, 

Wi’  instant  speed, 

An’  strive  wi’  a’  your  Wit  and  Lear, 

To  get  remead. 

Yon  ill-tongu’d  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 

May  taunt  you  wi’  his  jeers  an’  mocks  : 

But  gie  him’t  het,  my  hearty  cocks  ! 

E’en  cowe  the  caddie ; 
An’  send  him  to  his  dicing  box 

An’  sportin  lady. 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o’  auld  Boconnock's, 

I 11  be  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bonnocks, 

An’  drink  his  health  in  auld  Na?ise  Tinnock's * 
Nine  times  a- week, 

If  he  some  scheme,  like  tea  an’  wrinnock’s, 
Wad  kindly  seek. 

Could  he  some  commutation  broach, 

I’ll  pledge  my  aith  in  guid  braid  Scotch, 

He  need  na  fear  their  foul  reproach 
Nor  erudition, 

Yon  mixtie-maxtie  queer  hotch-potch, 

The  Coalition. 

Auld  Scotland  has  a raucle  tongue ; 

She’s  just  a devil  wi’  a rung ; 

An’  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 

To  tak  their  part, 

1 ho  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung, 

She’ll  no  desert. 

An’  now,  ye  chosen  Five-and- Forty, 

May  still  your  Mither’s  heart  support  ye ; 
l hen,  though  a Minister  grow  dorty, 

„ An’  kick  your  place, 

Y e U snap  your  fingers,  poor  an’  hearty, 

Before  his  face. 

God  bless  your  Honors  a’  your  days, 

Wi’  sowps  o’  kail  and  brats  o’  claise, 

In  spite  o’  a’  the  thievish  kaes, 
v , , , _ That  haunt  St.  Jamie's, 

Y our  humble  Poet  sings  an’  prays 

While  Rab  his  name  is. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Let  half-starv’d  slaves,  in  warmer  skies. 

See  future  wines,  rich  clust’ring,  rise ; 

1 heir  lot  auld  Scotland  ne’er  envies, 
c,  , , , But  blythe  and  frisky, 

She  eyes  her  freeborn,  martial  boys, 

Tak  aff  their  Whisky. 

tho’ their  Phoebus  kinder  warms, 

Whde  fragrance  blooms  and  beauty  charms  • 
When  wretches  range,  in  famish’d  swarms, 

. , , e , T,be  scented  groves, 

Ur  hounded  forth,  dishonor  arm3 

In  hungry  droves. 

w.orthy  0]d  .^ess  of  the  Author’s  in  Mauchlinc, 

3-SS,uiitd  ro,itica  over  a e,ass  of 


Their  gun’s  a burden  on  their  shouther, 
They  downa  bide  the  stink  o’  powther; 

Their  bauldest  thought’s  a hunk’ ring  swither 
To  stan’  or  rin, 

rill  skelp — a shot — they’re  afT,  a’  throwther, 
To  save  their  skin. 

But  bring  a Scotsman  frae  his  hill, 

Clap  in  his  cheek  a Higland  gill, 

Say,  such  is  royal  George's  will, 

An’  there’s  the  foe, 

He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 
Twa  at  a blow. 

Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  teas  him ; 
Heath  comes,  wi’  fearless  eye  he  sees  him : 

W r bluidy  hand  a welcome  gies  him  : 

. . An’  when  he  fa’s, 

His  latest  draught  o’  breathin  lea’es  him 
In  faint  huzzas. 

Sages  their  solemn  een  may  steek, 

An’  raise  a philosophic  reek, 

And  physically  causes  seek, 

0 4 ,,  . In  clime  and  season ; 

But  tell  me  Whisky's  name  in  Greek, 

I’ll  tell  the  reason. 

Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  Mither ! 

Tho’  whiles  ye  moistify  your  leather, 

1 ill  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o’  heather, 

-r,  , , „ Ye  tine  your  dam: 

rreedom  and  Whisky  gang  thegither ! 

Tail  aff  your  dram. 


THE  HOLY  FAIR.* 

A robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 
Hid  crafty  Observation  ; 

And  secret  hung,  with  poison’d  crust. 

The  dirk  of  Defamation  : 

A mask  that  like  the  gorget  show’d, 

Dye -varying  on  the  pigeon  ; 

And  for  a mantle  large  and  broad. 

He  wrapt  him  in  Religion. 

Hypocrisy  a-la-mode. 

I. 

Upon  a simmer  Sunday  morn, 

When  Nature’s  face  is  fair, 

I walked  forth  to  view  the  corn, 

An’  snuff  the  caller  air, 

sun  owre  Galston  muirs, 
rruL  gIonous  light  was  glintin  ; 

1 he  hares  were  hirplin  down  the  furs, 

1 lie  lav ’rocks  they  were  chantin 

Fu’  sweet  that  day. 

II. 

As  lightsomely  I glowr’d  abroad, 
ro  see  a scene  sae  gay, 

Three  Hizzies,  early  at  the  road, 

Cam  skelpin  up  the  way ; 

Twa  had  manteeles  o’  dolefu’  black, 

But  ane  wi’  lyart  lining ; 

“er  third,  that  gaed  a wee  a-back, 
as  in  the  fashion  shining 

Fu’  gay  that  day. 

III. 

The  twa  appear’d  like  sisters  twin, 

In  feature,  form,  an’  claes  ! 

I FZir  is  a common  phrase  in  the  West  of  Scot- 

land  for  a feacramental  occasion. 


6 


BURNS’  POEMS 


Their  visage,  wither’d,  lang,  an’  thin, 

An’  sour  as  ony  slaes: 

The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-an’-lowp, 

As  light  as  ony  lambie, 

An’  wi’  a curchie  low  did  stoop, 

As  soon  as  e’er  she  saw  me, 

F u’  kind  that  day. 

IV. 

Wi’  bannet  aff,  quoth  I,  “ Sweet  lass, 

I think  ye  seem  to  ken  me ; 

I’m  sure  I’ve  seen  that  bonnie  face, 

But  yet  I canna  name  ye.” 

Quo’  she,  an’  laughin  as  she  spak, 

An’  taks  me  by  the  hands, 

“Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gi’en  the  feck 
Of  a’  the  ten  commands 

A screed  some  day. 

V. 

“ My  name  is  Fun — your  cronie  dear, 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae ; 

An’  this  is  Superstition  here, 

An’  that’s  Hypocrisy. 

I’m  gaun  to***1******  Holy  Fair , 

To  spend  an  hour  in  daffin  : 

Gin  ye’ll  go  there,  yon  runkl’d  pair, 

We  will  get  famous  laughin 

At  them  this  day.” 

VI. 

Quoth  I,  “ With  a’  my  heart,  I’ll  do’t : 

I’ll  get  my  Sunday’s  sark  on, 

An’  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot ; 

Faith,  we’se  hae  fine  remarkin'.” 

Then  I gaed  hame  at  crowdie-time, 

An’  soon  I made  me  ready  ; 

For  roads  were  clad,  frae  side  to  side, 

Wi’  monie  a wearie  body, 

In  droves  that  day. 

VII. 

Here  farmers  gash,  in  ridin  graith, 

Gaed  hodden  by  their  cotters; 

There,  swankies  young,  in  braw  braid- 
claith, 

Are  springin  o’er  the  gutters. 

The  lassies,  skelpin  barefit,  thrang, 

In  silks  an’  scarlets  glitter  ; 

Wi’  sweet-milk  cheese,  in  monie  a whang, 
An’  furls  bak’d  wi’  butter 

Fu’  crump  that  day. 

VIII. 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi’  ha’pence, 

A greedy  glowr  Black  Bonnet  throws, 

An’  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 

Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show, 

On  ev’ry  side  they’re  gathrin, 

Some  carrying  dales,  some  chairs  an’  stools, 
An’  some  are  busy  blethrin 

Right  loud  that  day. 

IX. 

Here  stands  a shed  to  fend  the  show’rs, 
An’  screen  our  kintra  Gentry, 

There,  racer  Jess,  an’  twa- three  wh-res, 
Are  blinkin  at  the  entry. 

Here  sits  a row  of  tittlin  jades, 

Wi’  heaving  breast  and  bare  neck 


An’  there  a batch  of  wabster  lads, 

Blackguarding  frae  K ck 

For  fun  this  day. 

X. 

Here  some  are  thinkin  on  their  sins, 

An’  some  upo’  their  claes  ; 

Ane  curses  feet  that  fyl’d  his  shins, 
Anither  sighs  an’  prays  : 

On  this  hand  sits  a chosen  swatch, 

Wi’  screw’d  up  grace-proud  faces  ; 

On  that  a set  o’  chaps  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin  on  the  lasses 

To  chairs  that  day. 

XI. 

0 happy  is  that  man  an’  blest ! 

Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him ! 

Whase  ain  dear  lass,  that  he  likes  best, 
Comes  clinkin  down  beside  him  '. 

Wi’  arm  repos’d  on  the  chair  back. 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him  ! 

Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck, 
An’s  loof  upon  her  bosom 

Unken’ d that  day. 

XII. 

Now  a’  the  congregation  o’er, 

Is  silent  expectation ; 

For******  speels  the  holy  door, 

Wi’  tidings  o’  d-mn-t — n. 

Should  Hornie , as  in  ancient  days, 

’Mang  sons  o’  G — present  him, 

The  vera  sight  o’  * * * * * ’s  face, 

To’s  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him 

Wi’  fright  that  day. 

XIII. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o’  faith, 

Wi’  ratlin  an’  wi’  thumpin  ! 

Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath, 
He’s  stampin  an’  he’s  jumpin! 

His  lengthen’d  chin,  his  turn’d  up  snout. 
His  eldritch  squeel  and  gestures, 

Oh  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout, 

Like  cantharidian  plasters, 

On  sic  a day ! 

XIV. 

But,  hark  ! the  tent  has  chang’d  its  voice  , 
There’s  peace  an’  rest  nae  langer : 

For  a’  the  real  judges  rise, 

They  canna  sit  lor  anger. 

*****  opens  out  his  cauld  harangues, 

On  practice  and  on  morals  ; 

An’  aff  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs, 

To  gie  the  jars  an’  barrels 

A lift  that  day. 

XV. 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine 
Of  moral  pow’rs  and  reason? 

His  English  style,  an’  gesture  fine, 

Are  a’  clean  out  o’  season. 

Like  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  Heathen, 

The  moral  matt  he  does  define, 

But  ne’er  a word  o’  faith  in 

That’s  right  that  day. 

XVI. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 
Against  sic  poison’d  nostrum ; 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


7 


For  *******,  frae  the  water-fit, 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum  : 

See,  up  he’s  got  the  word  o’  G — , 

An’  meek  an’  mim  has  view’d  it, 

While  Common-Sense  has  ta’en  the  road, 
An’  aff,  an’  up  the  Cowgate,* 

Fast,  fast,  that  day. 

XVII. 

We  ******,  niest,  the  Guard  relieves, 
An’  Orthodoxy  raibles, 

Tho’  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes, 

An1  thinks  it  auld  wives’  fables : 

But,  faith!  the  birkie  wants  a Manse, 

So,  cannily  he  hums  them  ; 

Altho’  his  carnal  wit  an’  sense 
Like  hafflins-ways  o’ercomes  him 
At  times  that  day. 

XVIII. 

Now  butt  an1  ben,  the  Change-house  fills, 
Wi’  yill-caup  Commentators; 

Here’s  crying  out  for  bakes  and  gills, 

An’  there  the  pint  stowp  clatters  ; 

While  thick  an’  thrang,  an’  loud  an’  lang, 
Wi’  Logic  an’  wi’  Scripture, 

They  raise  a din,  that  in  the  end, 

Is  like  to  breed  a rupture 

O’  wrath  that  day. 

XIX. 

Leeze  me  on  Drink  ! it  gies  us  mair 
Than  either  School  or  College : 

It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair, 

It  pangs  us  fou  o’  knowledge. 

Be’t  whisky  gill,  or  penny  wheep. 

Or  ony  stronger  potion, 

It  never  fails  on  drinking  deep, 

To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day. 

XX. 

The  lads  an’  lasses  blythely  bent 
To  mind  baith  saul  an’  body. 

Sit  round  the  table  weel  content, 

An’  steer  about  the  toddy. 

On  this  ane’s  dress,  an’  that  ane’s  leuk, 
They’re  making  observations ; 

While  some  are  cozie  i’  the  neuk, 

An’  formin  assignations, 

To  meet  some  day. 

XXI. 

But  now  the  L — d’s  ain  trumpet  touts, 

Till  a’  the  hills  are  rairin, 

An’  echoes  back  return  the  shouts  : 

Black  ******  is  na  sparin : 

His  piercing  words,  like  Highland  swords, 
Divide  the  joints  an’  marrow  ; 

His  talk  o’  H— 11,  where  devils  dwell, 

Our  very  sauls  does  harrow  t 

Wi’  fright  that  day. 

XXII. 

A vast,  unbottom’d,  boundless  pit, 

Fill’d  fou  o’  lowin  brunstane, 

Whase  ragin  flame,  an’  scorchin  heat, 

Wad  melt  the  hardest  whun-stane ! 

The  half  asleep  start  up  wi’  fear, 

An’  think  they  hear  it  roarin, 

* A street  so  called,  which  faces  the  tent  in—, 
t Shakspeare’s  Hamlet. 


When  presently  it  does  appear, 

’Twas  but  some  neebor  snorin 

Asleep  that  day. 

XXIII. 

’Twad  be  owre  lang  a tale,  to  tell 
How  monie  stories  past, 

An’  how  they  crowded  to  the  yill 
When  they  were  a’  dismist ; 

How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  an’  caups, 
Amang  the  fur  ms  an’  benches  ; 

An’  cheese  an’  bread  frae  women’s  laps, 
Was  dealt  about  in  lunches, 

An’  dawds  that  day. 

XXIV. 

In  comes  a gaucie  gash  Guidwife, 

An’  sits  down  by  the  fire, 

Syne  draws  her  kebbuck  an’  her  knife, 
The  lasses  they  are  shyer. 

The  auld  Guidmen  about  the  grace , 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother, 

Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays, 

An’  gi’es  them’t  like  a tether, 

Fu’  lang  that  day. 

XXV. 

Waesucks ! for  him  that  gets  nae  lass, 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naething  ! 

Sma’  need  has  he  to  say  a grace, 

Or  melvie  his  braw  claithing  ! 

O wives,  be  mindfu’,  ance  yoursel, 

How  bonnie  lads  ye  wanted, 

An’  dinna,  for  a kebbuck-heel, 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a day  ! 

XXVI. 

Now  Clinkumbell,  wi’  rattlin  tow, 

Begins  to  jow  an’  croon  ; 

Some  swagger  hame,  the  best  they  dow, 
Some  wait  the  afternoon. 

At  slags  the  billies  halt  a blink, 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon : 

Wi’  faith  an’  hope  an’  love  an’  drink, 
They’re  a’  in  famous  tune, 

For  crack  that  day. 

XXVII. 

How  monie  hearts  this  day  converts 
O’  sinners  and  o’  lasses  ! 

Their  hearts  o’  stane,  gin  night  are  gane, 
As  saft  as  ony  flesh  is. 

There’s  some  are  fou  o’  love  divine  ; 
There’s  some  are  fou  o’  brandy  ; 

An’  monie  jobs  that  day  begin, 

May  end  in  Houghmagandie 

Some  other  day. 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE  STORY. 

Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end, 

And  some  great  lies  were  never  penn’d, 
Ev’n  Ministers,  they  hae  been  kenn’d 
In  holy  rapture, 

A rousing  whid,  at  times  to  vend, 

And  nail’t  wi’  Scripture. 

But  this  that  I am  gaun  to  tell 
Which  lately  on  a night  befel, 


8 BURNS’ 

Is  just  as  true’s  the  Deil’s  in  h-11 

Or  Dublin  city : 

That  e’er  he  nearer  comes  oursel 

’S  a muckle  pity. 

The  Clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty, 

I was  na  fau,  but  just  had  plenty  ; 

I stacher’d  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  ay 
To  free  the  ditches  ; 

An’  hillocks,  stanes,  an’  bushes,  kenn’d  ay 
Frae  ghaists  an’  witches. 

The  rising  moon  began  to  glow’r 
The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre  : 

To  count  her  horns,  wi’  a’  my  pow’r, 

I set  mysel ; 

But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 

I cou’d  na  tell. 

I was  come  round  about  the  hill, 

And  toddlin  down  on  Willie's  mill , 

Setting  my  staff  wi’  a’  my  skill, 

To  keep  me  sicker ; 

Tho’  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will, 

I took  a bicker. 

I there  wi’  Something  did  forgather, 

That  put  me  in  an  eerie  swither ; 

An  awfu’  sithe,  out-owre  ae  showther, 

Clear-dangling,  hang ; 

A three-tae’d  leister  on  the  ither 

Lay,  large  an’  lang. 

Its  stature  seem’d  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 

The  queerest  shape  that  e’er  I saw, 

For  fient  a wame  it  had  ava! 

And  then,  its  shanks, 

They  were  as  thin,  as  sharp  an’  sma’ 

As  cheeks  o’  branks. 

“ Guid-een,”  quo’  I ; “Friend  ! hae  ye  been 
mawin, 

When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin  ?”* 

It  seem’d  to  mak  a kind  o’  Stan’, 

But  naething  spak; 

At  length,  says  I,  “ Friend,  whare  ye  gaun, 
Will  ye  go  back  ?” 

It  spak  right  howe, — “ My  name  is  Death, 

But  be  na  fley’d.” — Quoth  I,  “ Guid  faith, 
Ye’re  may  be  come  to  stap  my  breath ; 

But  tent  me,  billie: 

I red  ye  weel,  tak  care  o’  skaith, 

See,  there’s  a gully  !” 

“ Guidman,”  quo  he,  “ put  up  your  whittle, 
I’m  no  design’d  to  try  its  mettle  ; 

But  if  I did,  I wad  be  kittle 

To  be  mislear’d, 

I wad  na  mind  it,  no,  that  spittle 

Out-ower  my  beard.” 

“Weel,  weel !”  says  I,  “ a bargain  be’t ; 
Come,  gies  your  hand,  an’  sae  we’re  gree’t ; 
We’ll  ease  our  shanks  an’  tak  a seat, 

Come,  gies  your  news ; 
This  while  t ye  hae  been  monie  a gate 
At  monie  a house.” 

“Ay,  ay  !”  quo’  he,  an’  shook  his  head, 

“ It’s  e’en  a lang,  lang  time  indeed 
Sin’  I began  to  nick  the  thread. 

An’  choke  the  breath  ; 

Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread, 

An’  sae  maun  Death. 

* Thi3  rencounter  happened  in  seed-time,  1785. 
f An  epidemical  fever  was  then  raging  in  that 
country. 


POEMS. 

“ Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand  fled 
Sin’  I was  to  the  hutching  bred, 

An’  monie  a scheme  in  vain’s  been  laid, 

To  stap  or  scar  me ; 

Till  an e'  Hornbook's*  ta’en  up  the  trade. 

An’  faith,  he’ll  waur  me. 

“Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i’  the  Clachan, 

Deil  mak  his  king’s-huod  in  a spleuchan  ! 

He’s  grown  sae  well  acquaint  wi’  Buchant 
An’  ither  chaps, 

That  weans  haud  out  their  fingers  laughin, 

And  pouk  my  hips. 

“ See,  here’s  a sithe,  and  there’s  a dart, 

They  hae  pierc’d  mony  a gallant  heart ; 

But  Doctor  Hornbook,  wi’  his  art, 

And  cursed  skill, 

Has  made  them  baith  not  worth  a f — t, 

Damn’d  haet  they’ll  kill. 

“ ’Twas  but  yestreen,  nae  farther  gaen, 

I threw  a noble  throw  at  ane, 

Wi’  less,  I’m  sure,  I’ve  hundreds  slain ; 

But  deil-ma-care, 

It  just  play’d  dirl  up  the  bane, 

But  did  nae  mair. 

ilHornbook  was  by,  wi’  ready  art, 

And  had  sae  fortify ’d  the  part, 

That  when  I looked  to  my  dart, 

It  was  sae  blunt, 

Fient  haet  o’t  wad  hae  pierc’d  the  heart 
Of  a kail-runt. 

“ I drew  my  sithe  in  sic  a fury, 

I nearhand  cowpit  wi’  my  hurry, 

But  the  bauld  Apothecary 

Withstood  the  shock ; 

I might  as  weel  hae  try’d  a quarry 

O’  hard  whin  rock. 

“ Ev’n  them  he  canna  get  attended, 

Altho’  their  face  he  ne’er  had  kend  it, 

Just in  a kail-blade,  and  send  it, 

As  soon  he  smells’t, 

Baith  their  disease,  and  what  will  mend  it 
At  once  he  tells’t. 

“And  then  a’  doctors’  saws  and  whittles, 

Of  a’  dimensions,  shapes,  an’  mettles, 

A’  kinds  o’  boxes,  mugs,  an’  bottles, 

He’s  sure  to  hae  ; 

Their  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 
As  A B C. 

“ Calces  o’  fossils,  earth,  and  trees  ; 

True  Sal-marinum  o’  the  seas  ; 

The  Farina  of  beans  and  pease, 

He  has’t  in  plenty  ; 
Aqua-fortis,  what  you  please, 

He  can  content  ye. 

“ Forbye  some  new,  uncommon  weapons, 
Urinus  Spiritus  of  capons  ; 

Or  Mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings, 
Distill’d  per  se  ; 

Sal-alkali  o’  Midge-tail-clippings, 

And  monie  mae.’’ 

“ Waes  me  for  Johnny  Ged's  Hole  now,” 

Quo’  I,  “if  that  thy  news  be  true  ! 

* This  gentleman.  Dr.  Hornbook,  is,  professionally, 
a brother  of  the  Sovereign  Order  of  the  Ferula  ; but, 
by  intuition  and  inspiration,  is  at  once  an  Apothecary, 
Surgeon,  and  Physician, 
f Buchan’s  Domestic  Medicine. 

I j The  grave-digger. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


9 


His  braw  calf-ward  whare  gowans  grew, 

Sae  white  and  bonnie, 

Nae  doubt  they’ll  rive  it  wi1  the  plew  ; 

They’ll  ruin  Johnnie /” 

The  creature  grain’d  an  eldritch  laugh, 

And  says,  “ Ye  need  na  yoke  the  pleugh, 
Kirkyards  will  soon  be  till’d  eneugh, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear  : 

They’ll  a’  be  trench’d  wi’  monie  a sheugh 
In  twa-three  year. 

“ Whare  I kill’d  ane  a fair  strae-death, 

By  loss  o’  blood  or  want  o’  breath, 

This  night  I’m  free  to  tak  my  aith. 

That  Hornbook's  skill 
Has  clad  a score  i’  their  last  claith, 

By  drap  an’  will. 

“An  honest  Wabster  to  his  trade, 

Whase  wife’s  twa  nieves  were  scarce  wee  bred, 
Gat  tippence- worth  to  mend  her  head, 

When  it  was  sair ; 

The  wife  slade  cannie  to  her  bed, 

But  ne’er  spak  mair. 

“A  kintra  Laird  had  ta’en  the  batts, 

Or  some  curmurring  in  his  guts, 

His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets. 

An’  pays  him  well. 

The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer  pets, 

Was  laird  himsel. 

“A  bonnie  lass,  ye  kend  her  name, 

Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hov’d  her  wame, 

She  trusts  hersel,  to  hide  the  shame, 

In  Hornbook's  care ; 

Horn  sent  her  aff  to  her  lang  hame, 

To  hide  it  there. 

“ That’s  just  a swatch  o’  Hornbook's  way ; 

Thus  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day, 

Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  an’  slay, 

An’s  weel  paid  for’t ; 

Yet  stops  me  o’  my  lawfu’  prey, 

Wi’  his  d-mn’d  dirt. 

“ But,  hark ! I’ll  tell  you  of  a plot, 

Tho’  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o’t; 

I’ll  nail  the  self-conceited  Scot, 

As  dead’s  a herrin : 

Niest  lime  we  meet,  I’ll  wad  a groat, 

He  gets  his  fairin  !’ 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell, 

The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell 
Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal , 

Which  rais’d  us  baith : 

I took  the  way  that  pleas’d  mysel. 

And  sae  did  Death. 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR, 

A POEM. 

Inscribed,  to  J.  B*********,  Esq.  Ayr. 

The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough, 
Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  every  bough, 
The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush, 
Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green 
thorn  bush ; 

The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  red-breast  shrill, 
Or  deep-ton ’d  plovers,  gray,  wild  whistling  o’er 
the  hill ; 


Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  peasant’s  lowly  shed, 

To  hardy  Independence  bravely  bred, 

By  early  Poverty  to  hardship  steel’d, 

And  train’d  to  arms  in  stern  Misfortune’s  field, 
Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes, 

The  servile  mercenary  Swiss  of  rhymes  ? 

Or  labor  hard  the  panegyric  close, 

With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  Prose  ? 

No ! though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely  sings, 
And  throws  his  hand  uncouthly  o’er  the  strings. 
He  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  the  Bard, 

Fame,  honest  fame,  his  great,  his  dear  reward. 
Still,  if  some  Patron’s  gen’rous  care  he  trace, 
Skill’d  in  the  secret,  to  bestow  with  grace ; 
When  b*********  befriends  his  humble  name, 
And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  fame. 

With  heart-felt  throes  his  grateful  bosom  swells, 
The  godlike  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 


’Twas  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  winter-hap, 
And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-won  crap; 
Potatoe-bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 
Of  coming  Winter’s  biting,  frosty  breath  ; 

The  bees,  rejoicing  o’er  their  summer  toils, 
Unnumber’d  buds  an’  flowers’  delicious  spoils. 
Seal’d  up  with  frugal  care  in  massive  waxen  piles, 
Are  doom’d  by  man,  that  tyrant  o’er  the  weak, 
The  death  o’  devils  smoor’d  wi’ brimstone  reek; 
The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  every  side, 
The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide; 
The  feather’d  field-mates,  bound  by  Nature’s  tie, 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie: 
(What  warm,  poetic  heart,  but  inly  bleeds, 

And  execrates  man’s  savage,  ruthless  deeds !) 
Nae  mair  the  flower  in  field  or  meadow  springs ; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings, 
Except  perhaps  the  Robin’s  whistling  glee, 
Proud  o’  the  height  o’  some  bit  half-lang  tree : 
The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days, 

Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide  spreads  the  noon-tide 
blaze, 

While  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton  in  the 
rays. 

’Twas  in  that  season,  when  a simple  bard, 
Unknown  and  poor,  simplicity’s  reward  ; 

Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of  Ayr , 

By  whim  inspir’d,  or  haply  prest  wi’care  ; 

He  left  his  bed,  and  took  his  wayward  route, 
And  down  by  Simpson's * wheel’d  the  left  about : 
(Whether  impell’d  by  all-directing  Fate, 

To  witness  what  I after  shall  narrate  ; 

Or  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high, 

He  wander’d  out  he  knew  not  where  nor  why  :) 
The  drowsy  Dungeon-clocks  had  number’d  two, 
And  'Wallace  TowerS  had  sworn  the  fact  was  true. 
Thetide-swol’n  Firth  with  sullen  sounding  roar, 
Through  the  still  night  dash’d  hoarse  along  the 
shore  : 

All  else  was  hush’d  as  Nature’s  closed  e’e  ; 

The  silent  moon  shone  high  o’er  tower  and  tree : 
The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 

Crept,  gently  crusting,  o’er  the  glittering  stream! 
When,  lo  ! on  either  hand  the  Tist’ning  Bard, 
The  clanging  sugh  of  whistling  wings  is  heard  ; 
Two  dusky  forms  dart  thro’  the  midnight  air. 
Swift  as  the  Gos \ drives  on  the  wheeling  hare; 
Ane  on  th’  Auld  Brig  his  airy  shape  uprears. 
The  ither  flutters  o’er  the  rising  piers  : 

Our  warlock  Rhymer  instantly  descry ’d 

* A noted  tavern  at  the  Auld  Brig  end. 

! The  two  steeples.  % The  gos-hawk,  or  falcon. 


BURNS’  POEMS 


10 

The  Sprites  that  owre  the  Brigs  of  Ayr,  preside. 
(That  Bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke, 
And  ken  the  lingo  of  the  sp’ritual  fo’k ; 

Fays,  spunkies,  Kelpies,  a’,  they  can  explain 
them, 

And  ev’n  the  very  deils  theybrawly  ken  them.) 
Auld  Brig  appeared  of  ancient  Pictishrace, 

The  vera  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face  ; 

He  seem’d  as  he  wi’  Time  had  warstl’d  lang, 
Yet  teughly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 

New  Brig  was  buskit  in  a braw  new  coat, 

That  he,  at  Lon'on , frae  ane  Adams,  got ; 

In’s  hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth’s  a bead, 
Wi’  virls  and  whirlygigums  at  the  head. 

The  Goth  was  stalking  round  with  anxious  search, 
Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  ev’ry  arch ; 

It  chanc’d  his  new-come  neebor  took  his  e’e, 
And  e’en  a vex’d  and  angry  heart  had  he  ! 

Wi’  thieveless  sneer  to  see  his  modish  mien, 
He,  down  the  water,  gies  him  this  guideen : — 

AULD  BRIG. 

I doubt  na,  frien’,  ye’ll  think  ye’re  nae  sheep 
shank, 

Ance  ye  were  streekit  o’er  frae  bank  to  bank, 
But  gin  ye  be  a brig  as  auld  as  me, 

Tho’  faith  that  day,  I doubt  ye’ll  never  see, 
There’ll  be,  if  that  date  come,  I’ll  wad  a boddle, 
Some  fewer  whigmeleeries  in  your  noddle. 

NEW  BRIG. 

Auld  Vandal,  ye  but  show  your  little  mense, 
Just  much  about  it  wi’  your  scanty  sense  ; 

Will  your  poor,  narrow  foot-path  of  a street, 
Where  twa  wheel-barrows  tremble  when  they 
meet, 

Your  ruin’d,  formless  bulk  o’  stane  an’  lime, 
Compare  wi’  bonnie  Brigs  o’  modern  time  ? 
There’s  men  o’  taste  would  tak  the  Ducat- 
stream* * * § 

Tho’  they  should  cast  the  very  sark  an’  swim, 
Ere  they  would  grate  their  feelings  wi’  the  view 
Of  sic  an  ugly  Gothic  hulk  as  you. 

AULD  BRIG. 

Conceited  gowk ! puff’d  up  wi’  windy  pride! 
This  monie  a year  I’ve  stood  the  flood  an’  tide  ; 
And  tho’  wi’  crazy  eild  I’m  sair  forfairn, 

I’ll  be  a Brig,  when  ye’re  a shapeless  cairn  ! 

As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 

But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  you  better, 
When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a’-day  rains, 
Wi’  deepening  deluges  o’erflow  the  plains; 
When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawl- 
ing Coil, 

Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil, 

Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland 
course, 

Or  haunted  Garpali  draws  his  feeble  source, 
Arous’d  by  blust’ring  winds  an’ spotting  thowes, 
In  mony  a torrent  down  his  sna-broo  rowes ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat, 
Sweeps  dams,  an’  mills,  an’  brigs,  a’  to  the  gate  ; 
And  from  Glenbuck, t down  to  the  Rottonkey ,§ 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen’d,  tumbling  sea; 

* A noted  ford,  just  above  the  Auld  Brig. 

| The  banks  of  Oarpal  Water  is  one  of  the  few 
places  in  the  West  of  Scotland,  where  those  fancy- 
scaring  beings,  known  by  the  name  of  Ohaists,  still 
continue  pertinaciously  to  inhabit, 

t The  source  of  the  river  Ayr. 

§ A small  landing-place  above  the  large  key. 


Then  down  ye’ll  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 
And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring 
skies : 

A lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost, 

That  Architecture’s  noble  art  is  lost! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Fine  Architecture , trowth,  I needs  must  say 
o’t ! 

The  L — d be  thankit  that  we’ve  tint  the  gate 
o't ! 

Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices, 
Hanging  with  threat’ning  jut,  like  precipices; 
O’er  arching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring  coves, 
Supporting  roofs  fantastic,  stony  groves : 
Windows  and  doors,  in  nameless  scuplture 
drest, 

With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste,  unblest; 
Forms  like  some  bedlam  statuary’s  dream, — 
The  craz’d  creations  of  misguided  whim ; 
Forms  might  be  worship’ d on  the  bended  knee, 
And  still  the  second  dread  command  be  free, 
Their  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air,  or 
sea. 

Mansions  that  would  disgrace  the  building  taste 
Of  any  mason,  reptile,  bird,  or  beast ; 

Fit  only  for  a doited  Monkish  race, 

Or  frosty  maids  forsworn  the  dear  embrace, 

Or  cuifs  of  later  times,  wha  held  the  notion 
That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling  true  devotion ; 
Fancies  that  our  guid  Brugh  denies  protection, 
And  soon  may  they  expire,  unblest  with  resur- 
rection ! 

AULD  BRIG. 

0 ye,  my  dear-remember’d,  ancient  yealings, 
Were  ye  but  here  to  share  my  wounded  feel- 
ings ! 

Ye  worthy  Proveses,  an’  mony  a Bailie, 

Wha  in  the  paths  o’  righteousness  did  toil  ay ; 
Ye  dainty  Deacons,  and  ye  douce  Conveeners , 
To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey-clean- 
ers; 

Ye  godly  Councils  wha  hae  blest  this  town; 

Ye  godly  Brethren  of  the  sacred  gown, 

Wha  meekly  gie  your  hurdies  to  the  smiters; 
And  (what  would  now  be  strange)  ye  godly 
Writers: 

A’  ye  douce  folk  I’ve  borne  aboon  the  broo, 
Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say  or  do  ? 
How  would  your  spirits  groan  in  deep  vexation, 
To  see  each  melancholy  alteration  ; 

And,  agonizing,  curse  the  time  and  place 
When  ye  begat  the  base,  degen’rate  race  ! 

Nae  langer  Rev’rend  Men,  their  country’s  glory. 
In  plain  braid  Scots  hold  forth  a plain  braid 
story ! 

Nae  langer  thrifty  Citizens,  an’  douce, 

Meet  owre  a pint,  or  in  the  Council-house  ; 

But  staumrel,  corky-headed,  graceless  Gentry, 
The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  country — 

Men,  three-parts  made  by  Tailors  and  by  Bar- 
bers, 

Wha  waste  your  well-hain’d  gear  on  d — d new 
Brigs  and  Harbors  ! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Now  haud  you  there ! for  faith  ye’ve  said 
enough, 

And  muekle  mair  than  ye  can  mak  to  through. 
As  for  your  priesthood,  I shall  say  but  little, 
Corbies  and  Clergy  are  a shot  right  kittle : 

But  under  favor  o’  your  langer  beard, 


BURNS’  POEMS 


11 


Abuse  o’  Magistrates  might  wee.  be  spar'd : 

To  liken  them  to  your  auld-warld  squad, 

I must  needs  say,  comparisons  are  odd. 

In  Ayr,  Wag- wits  nae  mair  can  hae  a handle 
To  mouth  “a  Citizen,”  a term  o’  scandal: 

Nae  mair  the  Council  waddles  down  the  street, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit ; 

Men  wha  grew  wise  priggin  owre  hops  an1  rai- 
sins, 

Or  gather'd  lib’ral  views  in  Bonds  and  Seisins. 
If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a random  tramp, 

Had  shor'd  them  with  a glimmer  of  his  lamp, 
And  would  to  Common- sense,  for  once  betray’d 
them. 

Plain,  dull  Stupidity  stept  kindly  in  to  aid  them, 


What  farther  clishmaclaver  might  been  said, 
What  bloody  wars,  if  Sprites  had  blood  to  shed, 
No  man  can  tell;  but  all  before  their  sight, 

A fairy  train  appear'd  in  order  bright: 

Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  danc’d  ; 
Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanc’d : 
They  footed  o'er  the  watry  glass  so  neat, 

The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet : 
While  arts  of  Minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 
And  soul-ennobling  Bards  heroic  ditties  sung. 
O had  M’  Lauchlan*  thairm-inspiring  Sage, 
Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  engage, 
When  thro’  his  dear  Strathspeys  they  bore  with 
Highland  rage, 

Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia’s  melting  airs, 
The  lover’s  raptur’d  joys  or  bleeding  cares  ; 
How  would  his  Highland  lug  been  nobler  fir’d, 
And  ev’n  his  matcnless  hand  with  finer  touch 
inspir’d ! 

No  guess  could  tell  what  instrument  appear’d, 
But  all  the  soul  of  Music’s  self  was  heard ; 
Harmonious  concert  rung  in  every  part, 

While  simple  melody  pour’d  moving  on  the 
heart. 

The  Genius  of  the  Stream  in  front  appears, 
A venerable  Chief  advanc’d  in  years  ; 

His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crown’d — 

His  manly  leg  with  garter  tangle  bound. 

Next  came  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  ring, 
Sweet  Female  Beauty,  hand  in  hand  with 
Spring ; 

Then,  crown’d  with  flow’ry  hay,  came  rural 
Joy, 

And  Summer,  with  his  fervid-beaming  eye  : 
All-cheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowing  horn, 
Led  yellow  Autumn  wreath’d  with  nodding 
corn ; 

Then  Winter’s  time-bleach'd  locks  did  hoary 
show, 

By  hospitality  with  cloudless  brow. 

Next  follow’d  Courage  with  his  martial  stride, 
From  where  the  Feal  wild- woody  coverts  hide  ; 
Benevolence,  with  mild,  benignant  air, 

A female  form,  came  from  the  tow’rs  of  Stair: 
Learning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures  trode, 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-lov’d  abode  : 
Last,  white-rob’d  Peace,  crown’d  with  a hazel 
wreath, 

To  rustic  Agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  death  ; 

At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their 
kindling  wrath. 

* A well  known  performer  of  Scottish  music  on 
the  violin. 

% 


THE  ORDINATION. 

For  sense  they  little  owe  to  Frugal  Heaven — 

To  please  the  Mob  they  hide  the  little  given. 

I. 

Kilmarnock  Wabsters  fidge  an’  claw, 

An’  pour  your  creeshie  nations ; 

An’  ye  wha  leather  rax  an’  draw, 

Ot  a’  denominations, 

Swith  to  the  Laigh  Kirk,  ane  an’  a’, 

An’  there  tak  up  your  stations ; 

Then  aft' to  B-gb — 's  in  a raw, 

An’  pour  divine  libations 

For  joy  this  day. 

II. 

Curst  Common  Sense,  that  imp  o’  h— II, 
Cam  in  wi’  Maggie  Lauder;* 

But  O ******  * aft  made  her  yell, 

An’  R * * * * * sair  misca’d  her ; 

This  day  M’  ******  * takes  the  flail, 
And  he’s  the  boy  will  blaud  her ! 

He’ll  clap  a shangan  on  her  tail, 

An’  set  the  bairns  to  daub  her 

Wi’  dirt  this  day. 

III. 

Mak  haste  an’  turn  king  David  owre, 

An’  lilt  wi’  holy  clangor ; 

O’  double  verse  come  gie  us  four, 

An’  skirl  up  the  Bangor : 

This  day  the  kirk  kicks  up  a stoure, 

Nae  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her, 
For  Heresy  is  in  her  pow’r, 

An’  gloriously  shall  whang  her 

Wi’  pith  this  day. 

IV. 

Come,  let  a proper  text  be  read, 

An,  touch  it  afF  wi’  vigor, 

How  graceless  Harni  leugh  at  his  Dad, 
Which  made  Canaan  a nigger ; 

Or  Phinehast  drove  the  murdering  blade, 
Wi’  wh-re-abhorring  rigor; 

Or  Zipporah,§  the  scauldin  jade, 

Was  like  a bluidy  tiger 

I’  th’  inn  that  day. 

V. 

There,  try  his  mettle  on  the  creed, 

And  bind  him  down  wi’  caution, 

That  Stipend  is  a carnal  weed 
He  taks  but  for  the  fashion ; 

An  gie  him  o’er  the  flock,  to  feed, 

And  punish  each  transgression  ; 
Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin, 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

VI. 

Now  auld  Kilmarnock , cock  thy  tail, 

And  toss  thy  horns  fu’  canty ; 

Nae  mair  thou’lt  rowte  out-owre  the  dale, 
Because  thy  pasture’s  scanty; 

For  lapfu’s  large  o’  gospel  kail 
Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty, 

An’  runts  o’  grace  the  pick  an’  wale 
No  gi’en  by  way  o’  dainty, 

But  ilka  day. 

* Alluding  to  a scoffing  ballad  which  was  made  on 
the  admission  of  the  late  Reverend  and  worthy  Mr. 
L.  to  the  Laigh  Kirk. 

t Gen.  ix.  22.  J Num.  xxv.  8.  $ ExoC.  iv.  25. 


12 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


VII. 

Nae  mair  by  Babel's  streams  we’ll  weep, 
To  think  upon  our  Zion  ; 

And  hing  our  fiddles  up  to  sleep, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin : 

Come,  screw  the  pegs  wi’  tunefu’  cheep, 
Ahd  o’er  the  thairms  be  tryin; 

Oh,  rare ! to  see  our  elbucks  weep, 

An’  a’  like  lamb-tails  flyin 

Fu’  fast  this  day ! 

VIII. 

Lang  Patronage,  wi1  rod  o’  aim, 

Has  shor’d  the  Kirk’s  undoin, 

As  lately  F-nw-ck  sair  forfairn, 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin : 

Our  Patron,  honest  man!  Glencairn, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewin ; 

And  like  a godly  elect  bairn, 

He’s  wal’d  us  out  a true  ane, 

And  sound  this  day. 

IX. 

Now  R*******  harangue  nae  mair, 

But  steek  your  gab  forever: 

Or  try  the  wicked  town  of  A * * , 

For  there  they’ll  think  you  clever; 

Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lear, 

Ye  may  commence  a Shaver; 

Or  to  the  N-th-rt-n  repair, 

And  turn  a Carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand  this  day. 

X. 

M **  ***  and  you  were  just  a match, 

We  never  had  sic  twa  drones : 

Auld  Homie  did  the  Laigh  Kirk  watch, 
Just  like  a winkin  baudrons  ; 

And  ay’  he  catch’d  the  tither  wretch, 

To  fry  them  in  his  caudrons; 

But  now  his  honor  maun  detach, 

Wi’  a’  his  brimstone  squadrons, 

Fast,  fast  this  day. 

XI. 

See,  auld  Orthodoxy’s  faes, 

She’s  swingein  thro’  the  city: 

Hark,  how  the  nine  tail’d  cat  she  plays — 
I vow  it’s  unco  pretty  : 

There,  Learning,  with  his  Greekish  face, 
Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty  ; 

And  Common  Sense  is  gaun,  she  says, 
To  mak  to  Jamie  Beattie 

Her  ’plaint  this  day. 

XII. 

But  there’s  Mortality  himsel, 

Embracing  all  opinions ; 

Hear,  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell, 
Between  his  twa  companions ; 

See,  how  she  peels  the  skin  an’  fell, 

As  ane  were  peelin  onions  ! 

Now  there — they’re  packed  aff  to  hell, 
And  banish’d  our  dominions, 

Henceforth  this  day. 

XIII. 

O happy  day ! rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter  ! 
Morality’s  demure  decoys 

Shall  here  nae  mair  find  quarter : 
^,***»***?  r*****  are  tiie  boys, 
That  Heresy  can  torture ; 


They’ll  gie  her  on  a rape  and  hoyse, 
And  cow  her  measure  shorter 

By  th’  head  some  day. 

XIV. 

Come,  bring  the  tither  mutchkin  in, 

And  here’s,  for  a conclusion, 

To  every  New  Light * mother’s  son, 
From  this  time  forth,  Confusion ; 

If  mair  they  deave  us  with  their  din, 

Or  Patronage  intrusion, 

We’ll  light  a spunk,  and,  ev’ry  skin, 
We’ll  rin  them  aff  in  fusion 

Like  oil,  some  day. 


THE  CALF. 

To  the  Rev.  Mr. . 

On  his  text — Malachi,  ch.  iv.,  ver.  2:  “And  they 
shall  go  forth,  and  grow  up,  like  calves  of  the  stall.” 

Right,  Sir  ! your  text  I’ll  prove  it  true, 
Though  Heretics  may  laugh ; 

For  instance ; there’s  yoursel  just  now, 

God  knows,  an  unco  Calf! 

And  should  some  Patron  be  so  kind, 

As  bless  you  wi’  a kirk, 

I doubt  na,  Sir,  but  then  we’ll  find, 

Ye’re  still  as  great  a Slirk. 

But  if  the  Lover’s  raptur’d  hour 
Shall  ever  be  your  lot, 

Forbid  it,  ev’ry  heavenly  Power, 

You  e’er  should  be  a Stot  ! 

Tho’,  when  some  kind  connubial  Dear, 

Your  but-and-ben  adorns, 

The  like  has  been  that  you  may  wear 
A noble  head  of  horns. 

And  in  your  lug,  most  reverend  James , 

To  hear  you  roar  and  rowte, 

Few  men  o’  sense  will  doubt  your  claims 
To  rank  amang  the  nowte. 

And  when  ye’re  number’d  wi’  the  dead, 
Below  a grassy  hillock, 

Wi’ justice  they  may  mark  your  head — 

“ Here  lies  a famous  Bullock  /” 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 

O Prince ! O Chief  of  many  throned  Powers, 

That  led  th’  embattled  Seraphim  to  war  .—Milton. 

O thou  ! whatever  title  suit  thee, 

Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 

Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an’  sootie, 

Clos’d  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie, 

To  scaud  poor  wretches. 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a wee, 

An’  let  poor  damned  bodies  be  ; 

* New  Light  is  a cant  phrase  in  the  West  of  Scot- 
land, for  those  religions  opinions  which  Dr.  Taylor, 
of  Norwich,  has  defended  so  strenuously. 


B URNS’  POEMS. 


13 


I’m  sure  sma  pleasure  it  can  gte, 

E'en  to  a deil, 

To  skelp  an’  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 

An1  hear  us  squeal ! 

Great  is  thy  pow’r,  an1  great  thy  fame  ; 

Far  kend  and  noted  is  thy  name ; 

An’  tho’  yon  lowing  heugh’s  thy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far; 

An1  faith ! thou’s  heither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  raging  like  a roarin  lion, 

For  prey,  a’  holes  an’  corners  try  in; 

Whyies  on  the  strong-wing’d  tempest  flyin, 
Tirling  the  kirks ; 

Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin, 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I’ve  heard  my  reverend  Grannie  say, 

In  lariely  glens  ye  like  to  stray ; 

Or  where  auld-ruin’d  castles,  gray, 

Nod  to  the  moon, 

Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand’rer’s  way, 

Wi’  eldritch  croon. 

When  twilight  did  my  Grannie  summon 
To  say  her  prayers,  douse,  honest  woman, 

Aft  yont  the  dyke  she’s  heard  you  bummin, 
Wi’  eerie  drone ; 

Or,  rustlin,  thro1  the  boortrees  comin, 

Wi’  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night, 

The  stars  shot  down  wi’  sklentin  light, 

Wi’  you,  mysel,  I gat  a fright, 

Ayont  the  lough  ; 

Ye,  like  a rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi’  waving  sugh. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 

Each  bristl’d  hair  stood  like  a stake, 

When  wi’  an  eldritch,  stour,  quaick — quaick — 
Amang  the  springs, 

Awa  ye  squatter’d,  like  a drake, 

On  whistling  wings. 

Let  vmrlocks  grim,  an’  wither’d  hags , 

Tell  how  wi’  you,  on  ragweed  nags 
They  skim  the  muirs,  an’  dizzy  crags, 

Wi’  wicked  speed ; 

And  in  kirk  yards  renew  their  leagues, 

Ow’re  howkit  dead. 

Thence  kintra  wives,  wi’  toil  an’  pain, 

May  plunge  an’  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain; 

For,  oh!  the  yellow  treasure’s  ta’en 
By  witching  skill ; 

An’  dawtit,  twal-pint  Han  kie's  gaen 
As  yell’s  the  Bill. 

Thence  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse. 

On  young  Guidman,  fond,  keen,  an’  crouse; 
When  the  best  wark-lume  i’  the  house, 

By  cantrip  wit, 

Is  instant  made  no  worse  a louse, 

Just  at  the  bit. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 

An’  float  the  jinglin  icy-boord, 

Then  Water -kelpies  haunt  the  foord, 

By  your  direction, 
A.n’nighted  Trav’lers  are  allur’d 

To  their  destruction. 

An1  aft  your  moss-traversing  Spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  an’  drunk  is : 

The  bleezin,  curst,  mischievous  monkeys 
Delude  his  eyes, 


Till  in  some  miry  slouch  he  sunk  is, 

Ne’er  mair  to  rise. 

When  Masons'  mystic  word  an’  grip 
In  storms  an’  tempests  raise  you  up, 

Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell ! 
The  youngest  Brother  ye  wad  whip 

Aff  straught  to  hell ! 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonnie  yard, 

When  youthfu’  lovers  first  were  pair’d, 

An’  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar’d, 

The  raptur’d  hour. 

Sweet  on  the  fragrant,  flow’ry  swaird, 

In  shady  bow’r : 

Then  you.  ye  auld,  snic-drawing  dog ! 

Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog, 

An’  play’d  on  man  a cursed  brogue, 

(Black  be  your  fa’ !) 
An’  gied  the  infant  warld  a shog, 

’Maist  ruin’d  a’. 

D’ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a bizz, 

Wi’  reekit  duds,  an’  reestit  gizz, 

Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz, 

’Mang  better  fo’k, 

An’  sklented  on  the  man  of  TJz 

Your  spitefu’  joke  ? 

An’  how  ye  gat  him  i’  your  thrall, 

An’  brak  him  out  o’  house  an’  hall, 

While  scabs  an’  blotches  did  him  gall, 

Wi’  bitter  claw, 

An’  low’d  his  ill-tongu’d,  wicked  Scawl, 
Was  warst  ava? 

But  a’  your  doings  to  rehearse, 

Your  wily  snares  an’  fechtin  fierce, 

Sin’  that  day  MichaeV  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time, 
Wad  ding  a’  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An’  now,  auld  Cloots,  I ken  ye’re  thinkin 
A certain  Bardie’s  rantin,  drinkin, 

Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin, 

To  your  black  pit ; 
But,  faith!  he’ll  turn  a corner  jinkin, 

An’  cheat  you  yet. 

But,  fare-you-weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ! 

O wad  ye  tak  a thought  an’  men’ ! 

Ye  aiblins  might — 1 dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a stake — 

I’m  wae  to  think  upo’  yon  den, 

Ev’n  for  your  sake ! 


THE 

DEATH  AND  DYING  WORDS 

OF 

POOR  MAILIE: 

THE  AUTHOR’S  ONLY  PET  YOWE. 
AN  UNCO  MOURNFU’  TALE. 

As  Mailie,  an’  her  lambs  thegither, 
Were  ae  day  nibbling  on  the  tether, 
Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a hitch, 

Art’  owre  she  warsl’d  in  the  ditch. 

* Vide  Milton,  Book  VI. 


14 


BURNS 


POEMS. 


There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  lie, 

When  Hughoc * he  cam  doytin  by. 

Wi’  glowrin  een,  an’  lifted  han’s, 

Poor  Hughoc  like  a statue  stan’s  ; 

He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended, 

But,  waes  my  heart ! he  could  na  mend  it! 

He  gaped  wide,  but  naething  spak  ! 

At  length  Poor  Mailie  silence  brak. 

“ O thou,  whase  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu’  case  ! 

My  dying  words  attentive  hear, 

An’  bear  them  to  my  master  dear. 

“ Tell  him,  if  e’er  again  he  keep, 

As  muckle  gear  as  buy  a sheep, 

O,  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi’  wicked  strings  o’  hemp  or  hair! 

But  ca’  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 

An’  let  them  wander  at  their  will ; 

So  may  his  flock  increase,  an’  grow 
To  scores  o’  lambs,  an’  packs  o’  woo’  ! 

“ Tell  him,  he  was  a master  kin’, 

An’  ay  was  guid  to  me  and  mine  ; 

An’  now  my  dying  charge  I gie  him, 

My  helpless  lambs  I trust  them  wi’  him. 

“0,  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives, 
Frae  dogs,  an’  tods,  an’  butchers’  knives! 
But  gie  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill, 

Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  themsel : 

An’  tent  them  duly,  e’en  an1  morn, 

W’  teats  o’  hay  an’  rips  o’  corn. 

“ An’  may  they  never  learn  the  gaeta 
Of  ither  vile  wanrestfu’  pets  ! 

To  slink  thro’  slaps,  an’  reave  an’  steal, 

At  stacks  o’  pease,  or  stocks  o’  kail. 

So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbears, 

For  monie  a year  come  thro’  the  shears : 

So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o’  bread, 

An’  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they’re  dead. 

“ My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  an’  heir, 

O,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi’  care  ! 

An’,  if  he  live  to  be  a beast, 

To  pit  some  havins  in  his  breast ! 

An’  warn  him,  what  I winna  name, 

To  stay  content  wi’  yowes  at  hame; 

An’  no  to  rin  an’  wear  his  cloots, 

Like  ither  menseless,  graceless  brutes. 

“ An,  niest  my  yowie,  silly  thing, 

Gude  keep  thee  frae  a tether  string ! 

O,  may  thou  ne’er  forgather  up 
Wi’  ony  blastit,  moorland  toop; 

But  ay  keep  mind  to  moop  an’  mell, 

Wi’  sheep  o’  credit  like  thysel! 

“ And  now,  my  bairns,  wi’  my  last  breath, 
I lea’e  my  blessin  wi’  you  baith : 

An’  when  you  think  upo’  your  Mither, 

Mind  to  be  kin’  to  ane  anither. 

“ Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail, 

To  tell  my  master  a’  my  tale  ; 

An’  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether, 

An',  for  thy  pains,  thou’se  get  my  blather.” 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turn’d  her  head, 

An’  clos’d  her  e’en  amang  the  dead. 

*A  neebor  herd-callan. 


POOR  MAILIE’S  ELEGY. 

Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 

Wi’  saut  tears  trickling  down  your  nose ; 
Our  bardie’s  fate  is  at  a close, 

Past  a’  remead ; 

The  last  sad  cape-stane  of  his  woes; 

Poor  Mailie's  dead ! 

It’s  no  the  loss  o’  warl’s  gear, 

That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear, 

Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed ; 
He’s  lost  a friend  and  neebor  dear. 

In  Mailie  dead. 

Thro’  a’  the  town  she  trotted  by  him  ; 

A lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him  ; 

Wi’  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him, 
She  ran  wi’  speed: 

A friend  mair  faithfu’  ne’er  cam  nigh  him. 
Than  Mailie  dead. 

I wat  she  was  a sheep  o’  sense, 

An’  could  behave  hersel  wi’  mense : 

I’ll  say’t,  she  never  brak  a fence, 

Thro’  thievish  greed. 
Our  bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spence 

Sin’  Mailie's  dead. 

Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howe, 

Her  living  image  in  her  yowe, 

Comes  bleating  to  him,  owre  the  knowe, 
For  bits  o’  bread ; 
An’  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe 

For  Mailie  dead. 

She  was  nae  get  o’  moorland  tips, 

Wi’  tawted  ket,  an’  hairy  hips; 

For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ship 

Frae  yont  the  Tweed 
A bonnier  ne’er  cross’d  the  clips 
Than  Mailie  dead. 

Wae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 
That  vile,  wanchancie  thing — a rape  ! 

It  maks  guid  fellows  grin  an’  gape, 

Wi’  chokin  dread ; 
An’  Robin's  bonnet  wave  wi’  crape, 

For  Mailie  dead. 

O,  a’  ye  bards  on  bonnie  Boon  ! 

An’  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune  ! 
Come,  join  the  melancholious  croon 

O’  Robin's  reed ! 

His  heart  will  never  get  aboon ! 

His  Mailie  dead. 


TO  J.  S****. 


Friendship!  mysterious  cement  of  tb»  soul ! 
Sweet’ner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society  ! 

I owe  thee  much. Blair. 


Dear  S****,  the  sleest  paukie  thief, 
That  e’er  attempted  stealth  or  rief, 

Ye  surely  hae  some  warlock-breef 

Owre  human  hearts: 
For  ne’er  a bosom  yet  was  prief 

Against  your  arts. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


15 


For  me,  I swear  by  sun  an1  moon, 

And  ev’ry  star  that  blinks  aboon, 

Ye’ve  cost  me  twenty  pair  o’  shoon 

Just  gaun  to  see  you  ; 

And  ev’ry  ither  pair  that’s  done, 

Mair  ta’en  I'm  wi’  you. 

That  auld  capricious  carlin,  Nature, 

To  mak  amends  for  scrimpit  stature, 

She's  turn’d  you  aff,  a human  creature 
On  her  first  plan, 

And  in  her  freaks,  on  ev'ry  feature, 

She’s  wrote  the  Man. 

Just  now  I’ve  ta’en  the  fit  o’  rhyme, 

My  barmie  noddle’s  working  prime, 

My  fancy  yerkit  up  sublime 

W i’  hasty  summon  : 

Hae  ye  a leisure-moment’s  time 

To  hear  what’s  comin? 

Some  rhyme,  a neebor’s  name  to  lash; 

Some  rhyme  (vain  thought !)  for  needfu’  cash, 
Some  rhyme  to  court  the  kintra  clash, 

An’  raise  a din ; 

For  me,  an  aim  I never  fash; 

I rhyme  for  fun. 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat, 

An’  damn’d  my  fortune  to  the  groat ; 

But  in  requit, 

Has  bless’d  me  wi’  a random  shot 
O’  kintra  wit. 

This  while  my  notion’s  ta’en  a sklent, 

To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  prent  ; 

But  still  the  mair  I’m  that  way  bent, 

Something  cries,  “ Hoolie : 
I red  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent ! 

Ye’ll  shaw  your  folly. 

“ There’s  ither  poets,  much  your  betters, 
Far  seen  in  Greek , deep  men  o’  letters, 

Hae  thought  they  had  ensur’d  their  debtors, 

A’  future  ages  ; 

Now  moths  deform  in  shapeless  tetters, 

The  unknown  pages.” 

Then  fareweel  hopes  o’  laurel-boughs, 

To  garland  my  poetic  brows  ! 

Henceforth  I’ll  rove  where  busy  ploughs 
Are  whistling  thrang, 

An’  teach  the  lanely  heights  an’  howes 
My  rustic  sang. 

I’ll  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed, 

How  never-halting  moments  speed, 

Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread, 

Then,  all  unknown, 

I’ll  lay  me  with  the  inglorious  dead, 

Forgot  and  gone. 

But  why  o’  death  begin  a tale  ? 

Just  now  we’re  living  sound  and  hale, 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail, 

Heave  care  o’er  side ! 

And  large,  before  enjoyment’s  gale, 

Let’s  tak  the  tide. 

This  life,  sae  far’s  I understand, 

Is  a’  enchanted,  fairy  land, 

Where  pleasure  is  the  magic  wand, 

That  wielded  right, 

Maks  hours,  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand, 

Dance  by  fu’  light. 

The  magic-wand  then  let  us  wield ; 

For  ance  that  five-an’-forty’s  speel’d, 


See  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

W i’  wrinkl’d  face, 

Comes  hostin,  hirplin  owre  the  field, 

Wi’  creepin  pace. 

When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin, 
Then  fareweel  vacant,  careless  roamin  ; 

An’  fareweel  cheerfu’  tankards  foamin, 

An’  social  noise  ; 

An’  fareweel,  dear,  deluding  woman , 

The  joy  of  joys ! 

O Life  ! how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 
Young  Fancy’s  rays  the  hills  adorning ! 
Cold-pausing  Caution’s  lesson  scorning, 

We  frisk  away, 

Like  school-boys,  at  th’  expected  warning, 

To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 

We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier, 

Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near, 

Among  the  leaves ; 

And  though  the  puny  wound  appear, 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

Some,  lucky,  find  a flow’ry  spot, 

For  which  they  never  toil’d  nor  swat ; 

They  drink  the  sweet,  and  eat  the  fat, 

But  care  or  pain ; 

And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 

With  high  disdain. 

With  steady  aim,  some  fortune  chase  ; 

Keen  Hope  does  every  sinew  brace  ; 

Thro’  fair,  thro’  foul,  they  urge  the  race, 

And  seize  the  prey : 

Then  cannie,  in  some  cozie  place, 

They  close  the  day. 

And  others,  like  your  humble  servan’, 

Poor  wights ! nae  rules  nor  roads  observin ; 

To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervin, 

They  zig-zag  on ; 

Till  curst  with  age,  obscure  an’  starvin, 

They  aften  groan. 

Alas  ! what  bitter  toil  an’  straining — 

But  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complaining! 

Is  fortune’s  fickle  Luna  waning  ? 

E’en  let  her  gang ! 

Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 

Let’s  sing  our  sang. 

My  pen  I here  fling  to  the  door, 

And  kneel,  “Ye  Powers  !”and  warm  implore, 
“ Tho’  I should  wander  terra  o’er, 

In  all  her  climes, 

Grant  me  but  this,  I ask  no  more, 

Ay  rowth  o’  rhymes. 

“ Gie  dreeping  roasts  to  kintra  lairds, 

Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards ; 

Gie  fine  braw  ciaes  to  fine  life-guards, 

And  maids  of  honor, 

And  yill  an’  whisky  gie  to  cairds, 

Until  they  sconner. 

“ A title,  Dempster  merits  it ; 

A garter  gie  to  XVilliePitt  ; 

Gie  wealth  to  some  be-ledger’d  cit, 

In  cent,  percent.; 

But  gie  me  real,  sterling  wit, 

And  I’m  content. 

“ While  ye  are  pleas’d  to  keep  me  hale, 

I’ll  sit  down  o’er  my  scanty  meal, 

Be’t  water-brosc,  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi*  cheerfu’  face, 


BURNS’  POEMS 


16 

As  lang’s  the  muses  dinna  fail 

To  say  the  grace.” 

An  anxious  e’e  I never  throws 
Behint  my  lug,  or  by  my  nose ; 

I jouk  beneath  misfortune’s  blows 

As  weel’s  I may: 
Sworn  foe  to  sorrow,  care  and  prose, 

I rhyme  away. 

O ye  douce  folk,  that  live  by  rule, 

Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool, 
Compar’d  wi’  you — O fool!  fool!  fool 
How  much  unlike ! 
Your  hearts  are  just  a standing  pool, 

Your  lives,  a dyke ! 

Hae  hair-brain’d,  sentimental  traces 
In  your  unletter’d,  nameless  faces! 

In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray, 

But,  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 

Y e hum  away. 

Y e are  sae  grave , nae  doubt  ye’re  wise  ; 
Nae  ferly  tho’  ye  do  despise 
The  hairum-scairum,  ram-stam  boys, 

The  rattlin  squad : 

I see  you  upward  cast  your  eyes — 

— Ye  ken  the  road 

Whilst  I — but  I shall  haud  me  there — *« 
Wi’  you  I’ll  scarce  gang  ony  where — 

Then,  Jamie,  I shall  say  nae  mair, 

But  quat  my  sang, 
Content  wi’  you  to  mak  a pair, 

Whare’er  I gang. 


A DREAM. 


Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  the  statute  blames  with 
reason  ; 

But  surely  dreams  were  ne’er  indicted  treason. 

[On  reading,  in  the  public  papers,  the  Laureates  Ode, 
with  the  other  parade  of  June  4,  1786,  the  author 
was  no  sooner  dropped  asleep,  than  he  imagined 
himself  to  the  birth-day  levee  ; and  in  his  dreaming 
fancy  made  the  following  Address.'] 

I. 

Guid -morning  to  your  Majesty  ! 

May  heav’n  augment  your  blisses. 

On  every  new  birth-day  ye  see, 

A humble  poet  wishes  ! 

My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee, 

On  sic  a day  as  this  is, 

Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 

Amang  the  birth-day  dresses 

Sae  fine  this  day. 

II. 

I see  ye’re  complimented  thrang, 

By  monie  a lord  and  lady  ; 

“ God  save  the  king  !”  ’s  a cuckoo  sang 
That’s  unco  easy  said  ay  ; 

The  poets,  too,  a venal  gang, 

Wi’  rhymes  wcel-turn’d  and  ready, 

Wad  gar  you  trow  ye  ne’er  do  wrang, 

But  ay  unerring  steady, 

On  sic  a day. 


For  me  ! before  a monarch’s  face, 

Ev’n  there  I winna  flatter ; 

For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  place, 
Ami  your  humble  debtor  : 

So,  nae  reflection  on  your  grace, 

Your  kingship  to  bespatter; 

There’s  monie  waur  been  o’  the  race, 
And  aiblins  ane  been  better 

Than  you  this  day. 

IV 

’Tis  very  true  my  sov’reign  king, 

My  skill  may  weel  be  doubted  : 

But  facts  are  chiels  that  winna  ding, 

An’  downa  be  disputed  : 

Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing, 

Is  e’en  right  reft  an’  clouted, 

And  now  the  third  part  of  the  string, 
An’  less,  will  gang  about  it 

Than  did  ae  day. 

V. 

Far  be’t  frae  me  that  I aspire 
To  blame  your  legislation, 

Or  say,  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire, 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation  ! 

But,  faith  ! I muekle  doubt,  my  Sire, 
Ye’ve  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps,  wha,  in  a barn  or  byre, 

Wad  better  fill’d  their  station 

Than  courts  yon  day. 

VI. 

And  now  ye’ve  gien  auld  Britain  peace, 
Her  broken  shins  to  plaster 
Your  sair  taxation  does  her  fleece, 

Till  she  has  scarce  a tester; 

For  me,  thank  God,  my  life’s  a lease, 
Nae  bargain  wearing  faster, 

Or,  faith ! I fear,  that  wi’  the  geese, 

I shortly  boost  to  pasture 

I’  the  craft  some  day. 

VII. 

I’m  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

When  taxes  he  enlarges, 

(An’  Will's  a true  guid  fallow’s  get, 

A name  not  envy  spairges,) 

That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt, 

An’  lessen  a’  your  charges ; 

But,  G-d-sake!  let  nae  saving-fit 
Abridge  your  bonnie  barges 

An’  boats  this  day. 

VIII. 

Adieu,  my  Liege ! may  freedom  geek 
Beneath  your  high  protection  ; 

An’  may  ye  rax  corruption’s  neck, 

And  gie  her  for  dissection  ! 

But  since  I’m  here,  I’ll  no  neglect, 

In  loyal,  true  affection, 

To  pay  your  Queen,  with  due  respect, 
My  fealty  an’  subjection 

This  great  birth-day. 

IX. 

Hail,  Majesty  Most  Excellent ! 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye, 

Will  ye  accept  a compliment 
A simple  poet  gies  ye  ? 

Thae  bonnie  bairntime,  Heav'n  has  lent, 
Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


17 


In  bliss,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent, 

Forever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day. 

X. 

For  you,  young  potentate  o’  W , 

I tell  your  Highriess  fairly, 

Down  pleasure’s  stream,  wi’  swelling  sails, 
I’m  tauld  ye’re  driving  rarely: 

But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails, 
An’  curse  your  folly  sairly, 

That  e’er  you  brak  Diana's  pales, 

Or,  rattl’d  dice  wi’  Charlie, 

By  night  or  day. 

XI. 

Yet  aft  a ragged  cowte's  been  known 
To  make  a noble  aiver  ; 

So,  ye  may  doucely  fill  a throne, 

For  a’  their  clish-ma-claver : 

There,  him*  at  Agincourt  wha  shone, 

Few  better  were  or  braver: 

And  yet,  wi’  funny,  queer  Sir  John, t 
He  was  an  unco  shaver 

For  monie  a day. 

XII. 

For  you,  right  rev’rend  0 , 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 
Although  a ribbon  at  your  lug 
Wad  been  a dress  completer : 

As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog 
That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 

Then,  swith  ! an’  get  a wife  to  hug, 

Or,  trouth!  ye’ll  stain  the  mitre 
Some  luckless  day. 

XIII. 

Young,  royal  Tarry  Breeks,  I learn, 

Ye’ve  lately  come  athwart  her  ; 

A glorious  galley, X stem  an’  stern, 

Well  rigg’d  for  Venus'  barter; 

But  first  hang  out,  that  she’ll  discern 
Your  hymenial  charter, 

Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple  aim, 

An’,  large  upo’  her  quarter, 

Come  full  that  day. 

XIV. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonnie  blossoms  a’, 

Ye  royal  lasses  dainty  ; 

Heav’n  mak  you  guid  as  weel  as  braw, 

An’  gie  you  lads  a-plenty  : 

But  sneer  nae  British  hoys  awa’, 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  ay ; 

An’  German  gentles  are  but  sma\ 

They’re  better  just  than  want  ay 
On  onie  day. 

XV. 

God  bless  you  a’ ! consider  now, 

Ye’re  unco  mucklc  dautet; 

But,  ere  the  course  o’  life  be  thro’, 

It  may  be  bitter  sautet : 

An’  I hae  seen  their  coggie  fou, 

That  yet  hae  tarrow’t  at  it ; 

But  or  the  day  was  done,  I trow, 

The  laggen  they  hae  clautet 

Fu’  clean  that  day. 

* King  Henry  V. 

+ Sir  John  Falstaff : vide  Shakapeare. 

t Alluding  to  the  newspaper  account  of  a certain 
royal  sailor’s  amour. 

2 


THE  VISION, 

DUAN  FIRST.* 

The  sun  had  clos’d  the  winter  day, 

The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play, 

An’  hunger’d  maukin  ta’en  ner  way 

To  kail-yards  green, 
While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 

Whare  she  has  been. 

The  thresher’s  weary  jlingin-tree 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me ; 

And  when  the  day  had  clos’d  his  e’e, 

Far  i’  the  west, 

Ben  i’  the  spence,  right  pensivelie, 

I gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle  cheek, 

I sat  and  ey’d  the  spewing  reek, 

That  fill’d  wi’  hoast-provoking  smeek, 

The  auld  clay  biggin, 

An’  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 
About  the  riggin. 

All  in  this  mottie,  misty  clime, 

I backward  mus’d  on  wasted  time, 

How  I had  spent  my  youthfu’  prime, 

An’  done  nae-thing, 

But  stringin  blethers  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Had  I to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 

I might,  by  this,  hae  led  a market, 

Or  strutted  in  a bank  an’  clarkit 

My  cash  account, 

While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarlut, 

Is  a’  th’  amount. 

I started,  mutt’ring,  blockhead!  coof! 

And  heav’d  on  high  my  waukit  loof, 

To  swear  by  a’  yon  starry  roof, 

Or  some  rash  aith, 

That  I,  henceforth,  would  be  rhyme  proof 
Till  my  last  breath. 

When  click  ! the  string  the  snick  did  draw  ; 
And  jee ! the  door  gaed  to  the  wa’ ; 

An’  by  my  ingle-lowe  I saw, 

Now  bleezin  bright, 

A tight,  outlandish  Hizzie,  braw, 

Come  full  in  sight. 

Ye  need  na  doubt,  I held  my  whisht; 

The  infant  aith,  half-form ’d,  was  crusht; 

I glowr’d  as  eerie’s  I’d  been  dusht 

In  some  wild  glen  ; 

When  sweet,  like  modest  worth,  she  blusht, 
And  stepped  ben. 

Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  hollv-boughs 
Were  twisted,  gracefu’,  round  Tier  brows; 

I took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token  ; 

An’  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Wou’d  soon  been  broken. 

A “ hair-brain’d,  sentimental  trace,” 

W as  strongly  marked  in  her  face  ; 

A wildly-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her; 

Her  eye,  ev’n  turn’d  on  empty  space, 

Beam’d  keen  with  honor. 

* JOuan,  a term  of  Ossian’s  for  the  different  divi- 
sions of  a digressive  poem.  See  his  Cath-Loda,  vol. 
ii.  of  M’rherson’s  translation. 


18 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Down  flow’d  her  robe,  a tartan  sheen, 

Till  half  a leg  was  scrimply  seen ; 

And  such  a leg ! my  bonnie  Jean 

Could  only  peer  it ; 

Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight,  and  clean, 

N ane  else  came  near  it. 

Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue, 

My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew  ; 

Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling  threw 
A lustre  grand ; 

And  seem’d,  to  my  astonish’d  view, 

A well  known  land. 

Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 

There,  mountains  in  the  skies  were  tost ; 

Here,  tumbling  billows  mark’d  the  coast, 

With  surging  foam ; 

There,  distant  shone  Art’s  lofty  boast, 

The  lordly  dome. 

Here,  JDoon  pour’d  down  his  far-fetch’d  floods ; 
There,  well-fed  lrwine  stately  thuds  ; 

Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  thro’  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore  ; 

And  many  a lesser  torrent  scuds, 

With  seeming  roar. 

Low,  in  a sandy  valley  spread, 

An  ancient  borough  rear’d  her  head; 

Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read, 

She  boasts  a race, 

To  ev’ry  nobler  virtue  bred, 

And  polish’d  grace. 

By  stately  tow’r  or  palace  fair, 

Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air, 

Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

I could  discern ; 

Some  seem’d  to  muse,  some  seem’d  to  dare, 
With  feature  stern. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel, 

To  see  a race*  heroic  wheel, 

And  brandish  round  the  deep-dy’d  steel 
In  sturdy  blows ; 

While  back-recoiling  seem’d  to  reel 

Their  stubborn  foes. 

His  country’s  savior,  t mark  him  well ! 

Bold  Richardton'sX  heroic  swell; 

The  chief  on  Sark§  who  glorious  fell, 

In  high  command ; 

And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 
His  native  land. 

There,  where  a scepter’d  Pictish  shade!! 
Stalk’d  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 

I mark’d  a martial  race,  portray’d 

In  colors  strong  ; 

Bold,  soldier-featur’d,  undismay’d 

They  strode  along. 

* The  Wallaces.  f William  Wallace. 

t Adam  Wallace,  of  Richardton,  cousin  to  the  im- 
mortal preserver  of  Scottish  independence. 

$ Wallace,  Laird  of  Craigie,  who  was  second  in 
command,  under  Douglas  earl  of  Ormond,  at  the  fa- 
mous battle  on  the  banks  of  Sark,  fought  anno  1448. 
That  glorious  victory  was  principally  owing  to  the 
judicious  conduct  and  intrepid  valor  of  the  gallant 
Laird  of  Craigie,  who  died  of  his  wounds  after  the 
action. 

||  Coilus,  king  of  the  Piets,  from  whom  the  district 
of  Kyle  is  said  to  take  its  name,  lies  buried,  as  tradi- 
tion says,  near  the  family-seat  of  the  Montgomeries 
■ of  Coil’s  field,  where  his  burial-place  is  still  shown. 


Thro’  many  a wild,  romantic  grove,* 

Near  many  a hermit-fancy’d  cove, 

(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love) 

In  musing  mood, 

An  aged  judge,  I saw  him  rove, 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck,  reverential  awet 
The  learned  sire  and  son  I saw, 

To  Nature’s  God  and  Nature’s  law 

They  gave  their  lore, 

This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw, 

That,  to  adore. 

Brydone's  brave  wardt  I well  could  spy, 
Beneath  old  Scotia's  smiling  eye  ; 

Who  call’d  on  fame,  low  standing  by, 

To  hand  him  on, 

Where  many  a patriot  name  on  high, 

And  hero  shone. 

DUAN  SECOND. 

With  musing-deep,  astonish’d  stare, 

I view’d  the  heavenly-seeming/atr  ; 

A whispering  throb  did  witness  bear, 

Of  kindred  sweet, 

When  with  an  elder  sister’s  air 

She  did  me  greet. 

“ All  hail ! my  own  inspired  bard  ! 

In  me  thy  native  muse  regard ! 

Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 

Thus  poorly  low ! 

I come  to  give  thee  such  reward  . £ 

As  we  bestow. 

“ Know,  the  great  genius  of  this  land 
Has  many  a light  aerial  band, 

Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 
Harmoniously, 

As  arts  or  arms  they  understand, 

Their  labors  ply. 

“ They  Scotia's  race  among  them  share ; 
Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare  ; 

Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  bare 

Corruption’s  heart : 

Some  teach  the  bard,  a darling  care, 

The  tuneful  art. 

“ ’Mong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  gore. 
They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits  pour; 

Or,  ’mid  the  venal  senate’s  roar, 

They,  sightless,  stand, 

To  mend  the  honest  patriot-lore, 

And  grace  the  hand. 

“And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage, 

Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age, 

They  bind  the  wild  poetic  rage 
In  energy, 

Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 

Full  on  the  eye. 

“ Hence  Fullarton,  the  brave  and  young; 
Hence  Dempster's  zeal -inspired  tongue  ; 

Hence  sweet  harmonious  Beattie  sung 
His  ‘ Minstrel  lays ;’ 

Or  tore,  with  noble  ardor  stung, 

The  sceptic's  bays. 

* Barskimining  the  seat  of  the  Lord  Justice-Clerk. 

t Catrine,  the  seat  of  the  late  doctor  and  present 
Professor  Stewart. 

J Colonel  Fullarton. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


19 


“ To  lower  orders  are  assign’d 
The  humbler  ranks  of  human-kind, 

The  rustic  Bard,  the  lab’ring  Hind, 

The  Artisan; 

All  choose,  as  various  they’re  inclin’d, 

The  various  man. 

“ When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain, 
The  threat'ning  storm  some  strongly  rein, 
Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain 

With  tillage-skill ; 

And  some  instruct  the  shepherd-train, 

Blythe  o’er  the  hill. 

“ Some  hint  the  lover's  harmless  wile  ; 
Some  grace  the  maiden’s  artless  smile  ; 

Some  soothe  the  lab’rer’s  weary  toil, 

For  humble  gains, 

And  make  his  cottage-scenes  beguile 

His  cares  ana  pains. 

“ Some,  bounded  to  a district-space, 
Explore  at  large  man’s  infant  race, 

To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 

Of  rustic  Bard  ; 

And  careful  note  each  op’ning  grace, 

A guide  and  guard. 

“ Of  these  am  I — Coila  my  name ; 

And  this  district  as  mine  I claim, 

Where  once  the  Campbells,  chiefs  of  fame, 
Held  ruling  pow’r ; 

I mark’d  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame, 

Thy  natal  hour. 

“ With  future  hope,  I oft  would  gaze, 

Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 

Thy  rudely  caroll’d  chiming  phrase, 

. In  uncouth  rhymes, 

Fir’d  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 

“ I saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar; 

Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  thro’  the  sky, 

I saw  grim  nature’s  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

“ Or,  when  the  deep  green-mantl’d  earth, 
Warm  cherish’d  ev’ry  flow’ret’s  birth, 

And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 
In  ev’ry  grove, 

I saw  thee  eye  the  gen’ral  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

“When  ripen’d  fields,  and  azure  skies, 
Call’d  forth  the  reaper’s  rustling  noise, 

I saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk, 

To  vent  thy  bosom’s  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

“ When  youthful  love, warm-blushing,  strong, 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 

Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

_ Th’  ador’d  Name, 

1 taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

‘‘  I saw  thy  pulse’s  maddening  play, 

Wild  send  thee  pleasure’s  devious  way, 

Misled  by  fancy’s  meteor  ray, 

, By  passion  driven; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  heaven.  I 


“ I taught  thy  manners-painting  strains, 
The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains, 

Till  now,  o’er  all  my  wide  domains 

Thy  fame  extends ; 
And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila's  plains, 
Become  my  friends. 

“ Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I show, 
To  paint  with  Thompson's  landscape-glow; 
Or  wake  the  bosom -melting  throe, 

With  Slienstone's  art; 
Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 
W arm  on  the  heart. 

“Yet  all  beneath  th’  unrivall’d  rose, 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows ; 

Tho’  large  the  forest’s  monarch  throws 
His  army  shade, 

Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows, 
Adown  the  glade. 

“ Then  never  murmur  nor  repine  ; 

Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine : 

And  trust  me,  not  Potosi's  mine, 

Nor  kings’  regard 

Can  give  a bliss  o’ermatching  thine, 

A rustic  Bard. 

“To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one, 

Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan ; 

Preserve  the  Dignity  of  Man, 

With  soul  erect; 

And  trust,  the  Universal  Plan 

W ill  all  protect. 

“ And  wear  thou  this" — she  solemn  said, 
And  bound  the  Holly  round  my  head  : 

The  polish’d  leaves,  and  berries  red, 

Did  rustling  play ; 

And,  like  a passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  G-UID; 

OR, 

THE  RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 

My  son,  these  maxims  make  a rule, 

And  lump  them  ay  thegither ; 

The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a fool, 

The  Rigid  Wise  anither  : 

The  cleanest  corn  that  e’er  was  dight 
May  hae  some  pyles  o’  caff  in  ; 

So  ne’er  a fellow-creature  slight 
For  random  fits  o’  daffin. 

Solomon—  Eccles.  cb.  vii.  ver.  16. 

I. 

O ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 

Ye’ve  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 
Your  neebor’s  faults  and  folly  ! 

Whase  life  is  like  a weel-gaun  mill, 

Supply’d  wi’  store  o’  water, 

The  heapet  happer’s  ebbing  still. 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 

II. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals. 

That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom’s  door 
For  glaikit  Folly’s  portals; 


20  BURNS’ 

I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 

Would  here  propone  defences, 

Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 
Their  failings  and  mischances. 

III. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi’  theirs  compar’d, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer, 

But  cast  a moment’s  fair  regard, 

What  makes  the  mighty  differ ; 

Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave, 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 

And  (whar’s  aft  mair  than  a’  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o’  hiding. 

IY. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse, 

Gies  now  and  then  a wallop, 

What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse, 

That  still  eternal  gollop: 

Wi’  wind  and  tide  fair  i’  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way ; 

But  in  the  teeth  o’  baith  to  sail, 

It  makes  an  unco  leeway. 

V. 

See  social  life  and  glee  sit  down, 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 

Till,  quite  transmugrify’d,  they’re  grown 
Debauchery  and  drinking: 

Or,  would  they  stay  to  calculate 
Th’  eternal  consequences; 

Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  taste, 
D-mnation  of  expenses ! 

vr. 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Ty’d  up  in  godly  laces, 

Before  ye  gie  poor  frailty  names, 

Suppose  a change  o’  cases ; 

A dear  lov’d  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A treacherous  inclination — 

But,  let  me  whisper  i’  your  lug, 

Ye’re  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

VII. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  : 

Tho’  they  may  gang  a kennin  wrang ; 

To  step  aside  is  human : 

One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it: 

And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark, 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

VIII. 

Who  made  the  heart,  ’tis  lie  alone 
Decidedly  can  try  us; 

He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias : 

Then  at  the  balance  let’s  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 

What’s  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what’s  resisted. 


TAM  SAMSON’S*  ELEG-Y. 

An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of  God. — Pope. 

Has  auld  K*********  seen  the  Deil ? 

Or  great  M‘  ******  *+  thrawn  his  heel ! 

Or  R*  ******  again  crown  weel,t 

To  preach  an’  read, 


POEMS. 

Na,  waur  than  a!”  cries  ilka  chiel, 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

K*********  lang  may  grunt  an’  grane, 
An’ sigh,  an’  sab,  an’  greet  her  lane, 

An’  deed  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  an’  wean, 

In  mourning  weed; 

To  death,  she’s  dearly  paid  the  kane, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead! 

The  brethren  of  the  mystic  level 
May  hing  their  head  in  woefu’  bevel, 

While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel, 

Like  ony  bead ; 

Death’s  gien  the  lodge  an  unco  devel: 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

When  winter  muffles  up  his  cloak, 

And  binds  the  mire  like  a rock ; 

When  to  the  loughs  the  curlers  flock, 

Wi’  gleesome  speed, 

Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock  ? 

Tam  Samson’s  dead! 

He  was  the  king  o’  a’  the  core, 

To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a bore, 

Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  roar 

In  time  of  need ; 

But  now  he  lags  on  death’s  hog-score , 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Now  safe  the  stately  sawmont  sail, 

And  trouts  bedropp’d  wi’  crimson  hail, 

And  eels  weel  kenn’d  for  souple  tail, 

And  geds  for  greed, 

Since  dark  in  death’s  fish-creel  we  wail 
Tam  Samson  dead ! 

Rejoice,  ye  birring  pai tricks  a’ ; 

Ye  cootie  moorcocks,  crousely  craw; 

Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fud  fu’  braw, 
Withouten  dread ; 

Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa’, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead. 

That  woefu’  morn  be  ever  mourn’d, 

Saw  him  in  shootin  graith  adorn’d, 

VvTiile  pointers  round  impatient  burn’d, 

F rae  couples  freed ; 

But,  och ! he  gaed  and  ne’er  return’d  ! 

Tam  Samson’s  dead. 

In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters  ; 

In  vain  the  gout  his  ancles  fetters ; 

In  vain  the  burns  came  down  likewraters, 

An  acre  braid ! 

Nowev’ry  auld  wife,  greetin,  clatters, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Owre  many  a weary  hag  he  limpit, 

An’  ay  the  tither  shot  he  thumpit, 

Till  coward  death  behint  him  jumpit, 

Wi’  deadly  feide ; 

Now  he  proclaims,  wi’  tout  or  trumpit, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead! 

When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger, 

He  reel’d  his  wonted  bottle-swagger, 

* When  this  worthy  old  sportsman  went  out  last 
muir-fowl  season,  he  supposed  it  was  to  be,  in  Ossi- 
an’s  phrase,  “ the  Inst  of  his  fields  and  expressed 
an  ardent  wish  to  die  and  be  buried  in  the  muirs. 
On  this  hint  the  author  composed  his  elegy  and  epi- 
taph. 

j-A  certain  preacher,  a great  favorite  with  the 
million.  Vide  the  Ordination,  stanza  II. 

t Another  preacher,  an  equal  favorite  with  the 
few  who  was  at  that  lime  ailing.  For  him,  see  also 
the  Ordination,  stanza  IX. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


21 


But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 

Wi’  weel  aim’d  heed; 

“ L — d,  five  !”  he  cry’d,  an’owre  did  stagger; 

Tam  Samson’s  dead! 

Ilk  hoary  hunter  mourn'd  a brither  ; 

Ilk  sportsman  youth  bemoan’d  a father; 

Yon  auld  gray  stane,  amang  the  heather, 
Marks  out  his  head, 

Whare  Burnshas  wrote,  in  rhyming  blether, 
Tam  Samson's  dead,  ! 

There  low  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest ; 

Perhaps  upon  his  mould’ ring  breast 
Some  spitefu’  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest, 

To  hatch  an’  breed ; 

Alas  ! nae  mair  he’ll  them  molest ! 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

When  August  winds  the  heather  wave, 

And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave. 

Three  volleys  let  his  mem’ry  crave 

O’  pouther  an’  lead. 

Till  Echo  answer  frae  her  cave, 

Tam  Samson’s  dead ! 

Heav’n  rest  his  saul,  whare ’er  he  be  ! 

Is  th’  wish  o’  monie  mair  than  me  ; 

He  had  twa  faults,  or  may  be  three, 

Y et  what  remead  ? 

Ae  social,  honest  man  want  we  : 

Tam  Samson’s  dead! 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Tam  Samson’s  weel- worn  clay  here  lies, 
Ye  canting  zealots,  spare  him! 

If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 

Ye’ll  mend  ere  ye  win  near  him. 

PER  CONTRA. 

Go,  fame,  an’  canter  like  a filly 
Thro’  a’  the  streets  an’  neuks  o’  Killie .* 
Tell  ev’ry  social,  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  grievin, 
For  yet,  unskaith’d  by  death’s  gleg  gullie, 
Tam  Samson's  livin. 


HALLOWEEN,  f 

The  following  Poem  will,  by  many  readers,  be  well 
enough  understood  ; but  for  the  sake  of  those  who 
are  unacquainted  with  the  manners  and  traditions 
of  the  country  where  the  scene  is  cast,  notes  are 
added,  to  give  some  account  ofthe  principal  charms 
and  spells  of  that  night,  so  big  vvil  h prophecy  to  the 
peasantry  in  the  west  of  Scotland.  The  passion  of 
prying  into  futurity  makes  a striking  part  of  the  his- 
tory of  human  nature  in  its  rude  state,  in  all  ages 
and  nations ; and  it  may  be  some  entertainment  to  a 
philosophic  mind,  if  any  such  should  honor  the 
author  with  a perusal,  to  see  the  remains  of  it, 
among  the  more  unenlightened  in  our  own. 

*Killie  is  a phrase.the  country-folks  sometimes  use 
for  Kilmarnock. 

| Is  thought  to  be  the  night  when  witches,  devils, 
and  other  mischief-making  beings,  are  all  abroad  on 
their  baneful,  midnight  errands  ; particularly  those 
aerial  people,  the  Fairies,  are  said  on  that  night,  to 
hold  a grand  anniversary.  _ 


Yes  ! let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 

The  simple  pleasures  ofthe  lowly  train; 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

Goldsmith. 

I. 

Upon  that  night,  when  fairies  light, 

On  Cassilis  Dovmans*  dance, 

Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze, 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance; 

Or  for  Colean  the  route  is  ta’en, 

Beneath  the  moon’s  pale  beams ; 

There,  up  the  cove, t to  stray  an’  rove 
Amang  the  rocks  and  streams. 

To  sport  that  night. 

II. 

Amang  the  bonnie  winding  banks, 

Where  Boon  rins,  wimpling  clear, 

Where  Brucet  ance  rul’d  the  martial  ranks, 
An  ’ shook  his  Carrick  spear, 

Some  merry,  friendly,  countra  folks, 
Together  did  convene, 

To  burn  their  nits,  an’  poii  their  stocks, 

An’  haud  their  Halloween 

Fu’  blythe  that  night. 

III. 

The  lasses  feat,  an’  cleanly  neat, 

Mair  braw  than  when  they’re  fine ; 

Their  faces  blythe,  fu’  sweetly  kvthe, 

Hearts  leal,  an’  warm  an’  kin’  : 

The  lads  sae  trig,  wi’  wooer-babs, 

Weel  knotted  on  their  garten, 

Some  unco  blate,  an’  some  wi’gabs, 

Gar  lasses’  hearts  gang  startin 

Whiles  fast  at  night. 

IV. 

Then  first  and  foremost,  thro’  the  kail, 

Their  stocks § maun  a’  be  sought  ance  ; 
They  steek  their  een,  an’  graip  an’  wale, 

For  muckle  anes  an’  straught  anes. 

Poor  hav’rel  Will  fell  aff  the  drift, 

An’  wander’d  thro’  the  bow-kail , 

An’  pow’t  for  want  o’  better  shift, 

A runt  was  like  a sow-tail, 

Sae  bow’t  that  night. 

V. 

Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane, 
They  roar  and  cry  a’  throu’ther  ; 

* Certain  little,  romantic,  rocky,  green  hills,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Earls  of  Cas- 
silis. 

t A noted  cavern  near  Colean-house,  called  The 
Cove  of  Colean  ; which,  as  Cassilis  Downans,  is  fam- 
ed in  country  story  for  being  a favorite  haunt  of  fai- 
ries. 

t The  famous  family  of  that  name,  the  ancestors  of 
Robert,  the  great  deliverer  of  his  country,  were  Earls 
of  Carrick. 

$ The  first  ceremony  of  Halloween  is,  pulling  each 
a stock,  or  plant  of  kail.  They  must  go  out,  hand  in 
hand,  with  eyes  shut,  and  pull  the  first  they  meet 
with:  Its  being  big  or  little,  straight  or  crooked,  is 
prophetic  of  the  size  and  shape  of  the  grand  object  of 
all  their  spells — the  husband  or  wife.  If  any  yird,  or 
earth,  stick  to  the  root,  that  is  tocher,  or  fortune  ; 
and  the  taste  of  the  custoc,  that  is,  the  heart  of  the 
stem,  is  indicative  of  the  natural  temper  and  disposi- 
tion. Lastly,  the  stems,  or,  to  give  them  their  ordi- 
nary appellation,  the  runts , are  placed  somewhere 
above  the  head  ofthe  door : and  t lie  Christian  names 
of  the  people  whom  chance  brings  into  the  house,  are, 
according  to  the  priority  of  placing  the  runts , the 
names  in  question. 


22  BURNS’ 

The  vera  wee  things,  todlin,  rin 
Wi’  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther; 

An’  gif  the  custoc' s sweet  or  sour, 

Wi’ joctelegs  they  taste  them  ; 

Syne  coziely,  aboon  the  door, 

Wi’  cannie  care  they  place  them 
To  lie  that  night. 

VI. 

The  lasses  straw  frae  ’mang  them  a’ 

To  pou  their  stalks  o'  corn  ;* 

But  Rab  slips  out,  an1  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn  : 

He  grippet  Nelly  hard  an1  fast ; 

Loud  skirl’d  a1  the  lasses ; 

But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

When  kiuttlin  in  the  fause-houset 
Wi’  him  that  night. 

VII. 

The  auld  guidwife’s  weel  hoordet  nits  J 
Are  round  an’  round  divided, 

An’  monie  lads’  and  lasses’  fates, 

Are  there  that  night  decided  : 

Some  kindle,  couthie,  side  by  side, 

An’  burn  thegither  trimly  ; 

Some  start  awa  wi’ saucie  pride, 

And  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 

F u’  high  that  night. 

VIII. 

Jean  slips  in  twa,  wi’  tentie  e’e, 

Wha  ’twas  she  wadna  tell ; 

But  this  is  Jock,  an’  this  is  me, 

She  says  in  to  hersel : 

He  bleez’d  owre  her,  an’  she  ower  him, 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part ; 

Till  fuff!  he  started  up  the  lum, 

And  Jean  had  e’en  a sair  heart 

To  see’t  that  night. 

IX. 

Poor  Willie,  wi’  his  bow-kail  runt , 

Was  brunt  wi’  primsie  Mallie  ; 

An’  Mallie,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunt, 

To  be  compar’d  to  Willie  : 

Mall’s  nit  lap  out  wi’  pridefu’  fling, 

An’  her  ain  fit  it  burnt  it; 

While  Willie  lap,  and  swoor  by  jing, 

’Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 

To  be  that  night. 

X. 

°Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min,’ 

She  pits  hersel  an’  Rob  in  ; 

In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join, 

Till  white  in  ase  they’re  sobbin  : 

Nell’s  heart  was  dancin  at  the  view, 

She  whisper’d  Rob  to  leuk  for’t : 

Rob,  stowlins,  prie’d  her  bonnie  mou, 

Fu’  cozie  in  the  neuk  for’t, 

Unseen  that  night. 

* They  go  to  the  barn-yard  and  pull  each,  at  three 
several  times,  a stalk  of  oats.  If  the  third  stalk 
wants  the  top-pickle , that  is,  the  grain  at  the  top  of  the 
stalk,  the  party  in  question  will  come  to  the  marriage- 
bed  any  thing  but  a maid. 

■J-When  the  corn  is  in  a doubtful  state,  by  being  too 
green  or  wet,  the  stack-builder,  by  means  of  old 
timber,  &c.,  makes  a large  apartment  in  his  stack, 
with  an  opening  in  the  side  which  is  fairest  exposed  to 
the  wind  : this  he  calls  a fauee-liouse. 

t Burning  the  nuts  is  a famous  charm.  They  name 
the  lad  and  lass  to  each  particular  nut,  as  they  lay 
them  in  the  fire,  and  accordingly  as  they  burn  quiet- 
ly together,  or  start  from  beside  one  another,  the 
course  and  issue  of  the  courtship  will  be. 


POEMS. 

XI. 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs, 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 

She  lea’es  them  gashin  at  their  cracks, 

And  slips  out  by  hersel ; 

She  thro’  the  yard  the  nearest  taks, 

An’  to  the  kiln  she  goes  then, 

An’  darklins  grapit  for  the  bauks, 

And  in  the  blue-clue * throws  then, 

Right  fear’t  that  night. 

XII. 

An’  ay  she  win’t,  an’  ay  she  swat, 

I wat  she  made  nae  jaukin  ; 

Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 

Guid  L — d ! but  she  was  quakin  ! 

But  whether  ’twas  the  Deil  himsel, 

Or  whether  ’twas  a bauken, 

Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  did  na  wait  on  talkin 

To  spier  that  night. 

XIII. 

Wee  Jenny  to  her  Grannie  says, 

“Will  ye  go  wi’  me,  grannie  ? 

I’ll  eat  the  applet  at  the  glass, 

I gat  frae  uncle  Johme 
She  fuff’t  her  pipe  wi’  sic  a lunt, 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap’rin, 

She  notic’t  na,  an  azle  brunt 
Her  braw  new  worset  apron 

Out  thro’  that  night. 

XIV. 

“Ye  little  skelpie-limmer’s  face ! 

How  daur  you  try  sic  sportin, 

As  seek  the  foul  Thief  ony  place, 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  : 

N ae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a sight ! 

Great  cause  ye  hae  to  fear  it ; 

For  monie  a ane  has  gotten  a fright, 

An’  liv’d  an’  di’d  deleeret 

On  sic  a night. 

XV. 

“Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherra-moor, 

I mind’t  as  weel’  yestreen, 

I was  a gilpey  then,  I’m  sure 
I was  na  past  fyfteen : 

The  simmer  had  been  cauld  an’  wat, 

An’  stuff  was  unco  green ; 

An’  ay  a rantin  kirn  we  gat, 

An’  just  on  Halloweeti 

It  fell  that  night. 

XVI. 

“ Our  stibble-rig  was  Rab  M’Graen, 

A clever,  sturdy  fallow; 

He’s  sin  gat  Eppie  Sim  wi’  wean, 

That  liv’d  in  Achmacalla: 

* Whoever  would,  with  success,  try  this  spell,  must 
strictly  observe  these  directions  : Steal  out,  all  alone, 
to  the  kiln,  and,  darkling,  throw  into  the  pot  a clue  of 
blue  yarn  ; wind  it  in  a new  clue  off  the  old  one  ; and, 
towards  the  latter  end,  something  will  hold  the 
thread  ; demand  wha  bauds  ? i.  e.  who  holds  ? an  an- 
swer will  be  returned  from  the  kiln-pot,  by  naming 
the  Christian  and  surname  of  your  future  spouse. 

f Take  a candle,  and  go  alone  to  a looking-glass; 
eat  an  apple  before  it,  and  some  traditions  say,  you 
should  comb  your  hair,  all  the  time  ; the  face  of  your 
conjugal  companion,  to  he,  will  be  seen  in  the  glass, 
as  if  peeping  over  your  shoulder. 


BURNS 


POEMS 


23 


He  gat  hemp-seed  * I mind  it  weel, 

An’  he  made  unco  light  o’t ; 

But  monie  a day  was  by  himsel, 

He  was  sae  sairly  frighted 

That  vera  night.” 

XVII. 

Then  up  gat  fechtin  Jamie  Fleck, 

An’  he  swoor  by  his  conscience, 

That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed , a peck ; 

For  it  was  a’  but  nonsense  ; 

The  auld  guidinan  raught  down  the  pock, 

An’  out  a handfu’  gied  him  ; 

Syne  bad  him  slip  fra  ’mang  the  folk 
Sometime  when  nae  ane  see1  d him  : 

An’  try’,  that  night. 

XVIII. 

He  marches  thro1  amang  the  stacks, 

Tho1  he  was  something  sturtin  ; 

The  graip  he  for  a harrow  taks, 

An’  haurls  at  his  curpin : 

An1  ev’ry  now  an’  then,  he  says, 

“ Hemp-seed  I saw  thee, 

An1  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass, 

Come  after  me,  and  draw  thee, 

As  fast  this  night.” 

XIX. 

He  whistl’d  up  Lord  Lenox’  march, 

To  keep  his  courage  cheerie  ; 

Altho’  his  hair  began  to  arch, 

He  was  see  fley’d  an1  eerie  : 

Till  presently  he  hears  a squeak, 

An'  then  a grane  an’  gruntle ; 

He  by  his  shouther  gae  a keek, 

An1  tumbl’d  wi’  a wintle 

Out-owre  that  night. 

XX. 

He  roar’d  a horrid  murder-shout, 

In  dreadfu’  desperation ! 

An’  young  an’  auld  came  rinnin  out, 

To  hear  the  sad  narration: 

He  swoor  ’twas  hilchin  Jean  M’Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphie, 

Till  stop  ! she  trotted  thro1  them  a’ ; 

An1  wha  was  it  but  Grumphie 
Asteer  that  night ! 

XXI. 

Meg  fain  w'ad  to  the  barn  gaen 
To  win  three  wechts  o'  naething;  t 

* Steal  out  unperceived,  and  sow  a handful  of  hemp- 
seed  ; harrowing  it  wilh  any  thing  you  can  conveni- 
ently draw  after  you.  Repeat  now  and  then,  “Hemp- 
seed  I saw  thee  ; hemp-seed  I saw  thee  ; and  him  (or 
her)  that  is  to  be  my  true-love,  come  after  me  and  pou 
thee.’1  Look  over  your  left  shoulder,  and  you  will  see 
the  appearance  of  the  person  invoked,  in  the  attitude 
of  pulling  hemp.  Some  traditions  say,  “ come  after  me, 
and  shaw  thee,”  that  is,  show  thyself  : in  which  case 
it  simply  appears.  Others  omit  the  harrowing,  and 
say,  “come  after  me,  and  harrow  thee.” 
t The  charm  must  likewise  he  preformed  unper- 
ceived, and  alone.  You  go  to  the  barn,  and  open  both 
doors,  taking  them  off  the  hinges,  if  possible  ; for 
there  is  danger  that  the  being,  about  to  appear,  may 
shut  the  doors,  and  do  you  some  mischief.  Then  take 
that  instrument  used  in  winnowing  the  corn,  which, 
in  our  country  dialect,  wre  call  a wecht ; and  go 
through  all  the  attitudes  of  letting  down  corn  against 
the  wind.  Repeat  it  three  times  ; and  the  third  time 
an  apparition  will  pass  through  the  barn,  in  at  the 
windy  door,  and  out  at  the  other,  having  both  the 
figure  in  question,  and  the  appearance  or  retinue, 
marking  the  employment  or  station  in  life. 


But  for  to  meet  the  deil  her  lane, 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in : 

She  gies  the  herd  a pickle  nits, 

An’  twa  red  cheekit  apples, 

To  watch,  while  for  the  bar 71  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tam  Kipples 

That  vera  night. 

XXII. 

She  turns  the  key  wi1  cannie  thraw, 

An1  owre  the  threshold  ventures; 

But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a ca\ 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters  ; 

A ratton  rattled  up  the  wa\ 

An’  she  cry’d,  L — d preserve  her, 

An’  ran  thro1  midden-hole  an’  a’, 

An’  pray’d  wi1  zeal  an1  fervor, 

F u’  fast  that  night. 

XXIII. 

They  hoy’t  out  Will,  wi’  sair  advice  : 

They  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane  ; 

It  chanc’d  the  stack  he  faddom'd  thrice* 

Was  timmer  propt  for  thrawin  : 

He  taks  a swirlie,  auld  moss-oak. 

For  some  black,  grousome  carlin ; 

An1  loot  a winze,  an1  drew  a stroke, 

Till  skin  inblypes  came  haurlin 

Aff’s  nieves  that  night. 

XXIV. 

A wanton  widow  Leezie  was, 

As  canty  as  a kittlen ; 

But  och  ! that  nmht,  amang  the  shaws, 

She  got  a fearfu’  settlin  ! 

She  thro’  the  whins,  an’  by  the  cairn, 

An1  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin* 

Whare  three  lairds'  lands  met  at  a bur  11, t 
To  dip  her  left  sark-sleeve  in, 

W as  bent  that  night. 

XXV. 

Whyles  owre  a linn  the  burnie  plays, 

As  thro’  the  glen  itwimpl’t; 

Whyles  round  a rocky  scar  it  strays  ; 

Whyles  in  a wiel  it  dimpl’t ; 

Whyles  glitter’d  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi1  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 

Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

Unseen  that  night. 

XXVI. 

Amang  the  brachens,  on  the  brae, 

Between  her  an1  the  moon, 

The  deil,  or  else  an  outler  quey, 

Gat  up  an1  gae  a croon : 

Poor  Leeze’s  heart  maist  lap  the  hool 
Neer  lav’ rock  height  she  jumpit, 

But  mist  a fit,  an1  in  the  pool 
Out-owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

W i1  a plunge  that  night. 

* Take  an  opportunity  of  going,  unnoticed,  to  a Bean 
stack,  and  fathom  it  three  times  round.  The  last  fa- 
thom of  the  last  time,  you  will  catch  in  your  arms  tho 
appearance  of  your  future  conjugal  yoke-fellow. 

f You  go  out,  one  or  more,  for  this  is  a social  spell, 
to  a south  running  spring  or  rivulet,  where  “ three 
lairds’  lands  meet,”  and  dip  your  left  shirt  sleeve.  Go 
to  bed  in  sight  of  a fire,  and  hang  your  vvet  sleeve  be- 
fore it  to  dry.  Lie  awake  ; and  sometime  near  mid- 
night, an  apparition,  having  the  exact  figure  of  the 
grand  object  in  question,  will  come  and  turn  the 
sleeve,  as  if  to  dry  the  other  side  of  it. 


24 


BURNS 

XXVII. 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane, 

The  luggies  three*  are  ranged, 

And  ev’ry  time  great  care  is  ta’en, 

To  see  them  duly  changed  : 

Auld  uncle  John,  wha  wedlock’s  joys 
Sin  Mar's  year  did  desire, 

Because  he  gat  the  toom-dish  thrice, 

He  heav’d  them  on  the  fire 

In  wrath  that  night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi’  merry  sangs,  an’  friendly  cracks, 

I wat  they  dinna  weary  ; 

An’  unco  tales,  an’  funnie  jokes, 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an1  cheery, 

Till  butter'd  so'ns, t wi’  fragrant  lunt, 

Set  a’  their  gabs  a-steerin ; 

Syne,  wi’  a social  glass  o’  strunt, 

They  parted  affcareerin 

Fu’  blythe  that  night. 


THE  AULD  FARMER’S 

NEW-YEAR  MORNING  SALUTATION 
TO 

HIS  AULD  MARE  MAGGIE, 

On  giving  her  the  accustomed  Ripp  of  Corn  to  han- 
sel in  the  New-Year. 

A guid  New-year  I wish  thee,  Maggie  ! 

Hae,  there’s  a ripp  to  thy  auld  baggie  : 

Tho’  thou’s  howe-backit,  now,  an’  knaggie, 
I’ve  seen  the  day, 

Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  ony  staggie 
Out-owre  the  lay. 

Tho’  now  thou’s  dowie,  stiff,  an’  crazy, 

An’  thy  auld  hide’s  as  white’s  a daisy, 

I’ve  seen  thee  dappl’t,  sleek,  and  glaizie, 

A bonnie  gray : 

He  should  been  tight  that  daur’t  to  raize  thee 
Ance  in  a day. 

Thou  ance  was  i’  the  foremost  rank, 

K filly  buirdly,  steeve,  an’  swank, 

An’  set  weel  down  a shapely  shank, 

As  e’er  tread  yird  ; 

An’  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a stank, 

Like  ony  bird. 

It’s  now  some  nine  an’  twenty  year, 

Sin’  thou  was  my  good  father’s  meere ; 

He  gied  me  thee,  o’  tocher  clear, 

An’  fifty  mark ; 

Tho’  it  was  sma’,  ’twas  weel-won  gear, 

An’  thou  was  stark. 

When  first  I gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 

Ye  then  was  trottin  wi’  your  minnie  : 

♦ Take  three  dishes  ; put  clean  water  in  one,  foul 
water  in  another,  leave  the  third  empty  : blindfold  a 
person,  and  lead  him  to  the  hearth  where  the  dish- 
es are  ranged  ; he  (or  she)  dips  the  left  hand  ; if  by 
chance  in  the  clean  water,  the  future  husband  or 
wife  will  come  to  the  bar  of  matrimony  chaste  ; if  in 
the  foul,  the  reverse  ; if  in  the  empty  dish,  it  foretells, 
with  equal  certainty,  no  marriage  at  all.  It  is  repeat- 
ed three  times,  and  every  time  the  arrangement  of  the 
dishes  is  altered. 

fSowens,  with  butter  instead  of  milk  to  them,  is 
always  the  Halloween  Supper. 


POEMS. 

Tho’  ye  was  trickie,  slee,  an’  funnie, 

Y e ne’er  was  donsie  ; 

But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  ^n’  cannie, 

An’  unco  sonsie. 

That  day,  ye  pranc’d  wi’  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonnie  bride  ; 

An’  sweet,  an’gracefu’  she  did  ride, 

Wi’  maiden  air  ! 

Kyle  Stewart  I could  bragged  wide, 

For  sic  a pair. 

Tho’  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  an’  hobble, 

An’  wintle  like  a saumont-coble, 

That  day  ye  was  a jinker  noble, 

For  heels  an’  win’ ! 

An’  ran  them  till  they  a’  did  wauble, 

Far,  far  behin’. 

When  thou  an’  I were  young  an’skeigh, 
An’  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh, 

How  thou  wad  prance,  an’  snore,  an’  skreigh, 
An’  tak  the  road  ! 

Town’s  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh, 

An’  ca’t  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn’t,  an’  I was  mellow, 
We  took  the  road  ay  like  a swallow  : 

At  Brooses  thou  had  ne’er  a fellow, 

For  pith  an’  speed ; 

But  ev’ry  tail  thou  pay’t  them  hollow. 

Where’er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma’,  droop-rumpl’t,  hunter  cattle, 
Might  aiblins  waur’t  thee  for  a brattle  ; 

But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try't  their  mettle. 
An’  gar’t  them  whaizle : 
Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a wattle 
O’  saugh  or  hazel. 

Thou  was  a nobl efittie-lan', 

As  e’er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn ! 

Aft  thee  an’  I,  in  aught  hours  gaun, 

On  guid  March  weather, 
Hae  turn’d  sax  rood  beside  our  han’, 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  braindg’t,  an’  fetch’t,  an’  fliskit, 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 

An’ spread  abreed  thy  weel-fill’d  brisket, 

Wi’  pith,  an’  pow’r, 

Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair’t  and  risket, 

An’  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  an’  snaws  were  deep, 
An’  threaten’d  labor  back  to  keep, 

I gied  thy  cog  a wee-bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer ; 

I kenn’d  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 

For  that,  or  simmer. 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit ; 

The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac’t  it : 

Thou  never  lap,  and  sten’t,  and  breastit, 

Then  steed  to  blaw  ; 

But  just  thy  step  a wee  thing  hastit, 

Thou  snoov’t  awa. 

My  plcvgh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a’ : 

Four  gallant  brutes  as  e’er  did  draw  : 

Forbye  sax  mae,  I’ve  sell’ t awa, 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 
They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  an’  twa, 

The  vera  warst. 

Monie  a sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 
An’  wi’  the  weary  warl’  fought ! 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


25 


An’  monie  an  anxious  day,  I thought 
We  wad  be  beat ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we’re  brought, 
VVi’  something  yet. 

And  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan’, 
That  now  prehaps  thou’s  less  deservin, 
An’  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin, 
For  my  last  fou, 

A heapit  stimpart,  I’ll  reserve  ane 
Laid  by  for  you. 

We’ve  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither ; 
We’ll  toyte  about  wi’  ane  anither  ; 

Wi’  tentie  care,  I’ll  flit  thy  tether, 

To  some  hain’d  rig, 
Where  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 
Wi’  sma’  fatigue. 


TO  A MOUSE, 

ON  TURNING'  HER  UP  IN  HER  NEST  WITH  THE 
PLOUGH,  NOVEMBER  1785. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow’rin,  tim’rous  beastie, 

O,  what  a panic’s  in  thy  breastie  1 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi’  bickering  brattle ! 

I wad  be  laith  to  rin  an’  chase  thee, 

Wi’  murdering  pattle  ! 

I’m  truly  sorry  man’s  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature’s  social  union, 

An’  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  maks  thee  startle 
At  me,  they  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An’  fellow  mortal ! 

I doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve; 
What  them  ? poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live ! 

A daimen-icker  in  a thrave 

’S  a sma’  request : 

I’ll  get  a blessin  wi’  the  lave, 

And  never  miss’t ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 

Its  silly  wa’s  the  win’s  are  strewin  ! 

An’  naething,  now.  to  big  a new  ane, 

O ’ foggage  green  ! 

An’  bleak  December’s  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  and  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  field  laid  bear  an’  waste, 

An’  weary  winter  comin  fast, 

An’  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 

Till  crash  ! the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro’  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o’  leaves  an’  stibble, 

Has  cost  thee  monie  a weary  nibble  ! 

Now'  thou’s  turn’d  out,  fora’  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 

To  thole  the  winter’s  sleety  dribble, 

An’  cranreuch  cauld ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 

In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 

The  best  laid  schemes  o’  mice  an’  men , 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 

An’  lea’e  us  nought  but  grief  an  pain, 

For  promis’d  joy. 


Still  thou  art  blest,  compar’d  wi’  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 

But,  och  ! I backward  cast  my  e’e, 

On  prospects  drear, 
An’  forward,  tho’  I canna  see, 

I guess  an  'fear. 


A WINTER  NIGHT. 

Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe’er  you  are, 

That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pityless  storm  ! 

How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  loop’d  and  window’d  raggedness,  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  7— Shakspeare. 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure, 

Sharp  shivers  thro’  the  leafless  bow’r  ; 

When  Fhcebus  gies  a short-liv’d  glow’r 
Far  south  the  lift, 
Dim-dark’ning  thro’  the  flaky  show’r 
Or  whirling  drift : 

Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock’d, 

Poor  labor  sweet  in  sleep  was  lock’d, 

While  burns,  wi’  snawy  wreeths  up-chock’d, 
Wild-eddying  swirl, 

Or  thro’  the  mining  outlet  bock’d, 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

List’ning,  the  doors  an’  winnocks  rattle, 

I thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 

Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle, 

O’  winter  war, 

And  thro’  the  drift,  deep- lairing  sprattle, 
Beneath  a scar. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing, 

That,  in  the  merry  months  o’  spring, 

Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o’  thee  ? 

Whare  wilt  thou  cow’r  thy  cluttering  wing, 
An’  close  thy  e’e  ? 

Ev’n  you,  on  murd’ring  errands  toil’d, 

Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exil’d, 

The  blood-stain’d  roost,  and  sheep-cote  spoil’d, 
My  heart  forgets, 

While  pityless  the  tempest  wild 

Sore  on  you  beats. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign, 

Dark  muffl’d,  view’d  the  dreary  plain, 

Still  crowding  thoughts,  a pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul, 

When  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain, 

Slow,  solemn,  stole — ■ 

“ Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust ! 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter,  biting  frost  ! 

Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows  ! 

Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shows 
More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting, 

Vengeful  malice,  unrepenting, 

Than  heav’n  illumin’d  man  on  brother  man  bo- 
stows  ! 

See  stern  oppression’s  iron  grip, 

Or  mad  ambition’s  gory  hand, 

Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip, 
Wo,  want,  and  murder  o’er  a land  ! 

Ev’n  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale, 

Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale, 


26 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


How  pamper’d  luxury,  flatt'ry  by  her  side, 

The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 

With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear, 
Look  o’er  proud  property,  extended  wide; 

And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind, 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  glittering  show, 

A creature  of  another  kind, 

Some  coarser  substance,  unrefin’d, 

Plac’d  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus  vile,  be- 
low ; 

Where,  where  is  love’s  fond,  tender  throe, 
With  lordly  honor’s  lofty  brow, 

The  pow’rs  you  proudly  own  ? 

Is  there,  beneath  love’s  noble  name, 

Can  harbor,  dark,  the  selfish  aim, 

To  bless  himself  alone  ! 

Mark  maiden-innocence  a prey 
To  love-pretending  snares, 

This  boasted  honor  turns  away 
Shunning  soft  pity’s  rising  sway, 

Regardless  of  the  tears,  and  unavailing  pray’rs! 
Perhaps,  this  hour,  in  mis’ry’s  squalid  nest, 
She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast, 
And  with  a mother’s  fears  shrinks  at  the  rock- 
ing blast ! 

Oh  ye  ! who  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 

Feel  not  a want  but  what  yourselves  create, 
Think,  for  a moment,  on  his  wretched  fate, 
VV  horn  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  ! 
Ill-satisfy’d  keen  nature’s  clam’rous  call, 
Stretch’d  on  his  straw  he  lays  himself  to 
sleep, 

While  thro’  the  ragged  roof  andchinky  wall- 
Chill  o’er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  heap : 
Think  on  the  dungeon’s  grim  confine, 

Where  guilt  and  poor  misfortune  pine  ! 

Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view  ! 

But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  fortune’s  underserved  blow  ? 
Affliction’s  sons  are  brothers  in  distress, 

A brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the  bliss  ! 

I heard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 
Shook  off  the  pouthery  snaw, 

And  hail’d  the  morning  with  a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing  craw. 

But  deep  this  truth  impress’d  my  mind- 
Thro’  all  his  works  abroad, 

The  heart,  benevolent  and  kind, 

The  most  resembles  God. 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

A BROTHER  POET.* 

January- 

I. 


Whit.e  winds  frae  aff  Ben  Lomond  blaw, 
And  bar  the  doors  wi’  driving  snaw, 

And  hing  us  ower  the  ingle, 

I set  me  down  to  pass  the  time, 

And  spin  a verse  or  twa  o’  rhyme, 

In  hamely  westlin  jingle. 

While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drift, 

Ben  to  the  chimla  lug, 

I grudge  a wee  the  great  folks’  gift, 

That  live  sae  bien  an’  snug : 

* David.  Sillar,  one  of  the  club  at  Tarbolton,  and 
author  of  a volume  of  Poems  in  the  Scottish  dia- 
lect.— E. 


I tent  less,  and  want  less 
Their  roomy  fire-side ; 

But  hanker  and  canker, 

To  see  their  cursed  pride. 

II. 

It’s  hardly  in  a body’s  pow’r, 

To  keep,  at  times,  frae  being  sour, 

To  see  how  things  are  shar’d  ; 

How  best  o’  chiels  are  whiles  in  want, 
While  coofs  on  countless  thousands  rant, 
And  ken  na  how  to  wair’t : 

But,  Davie,  lad,  ne’er  fash  your  head, 

Tho’  we  hae  little  gear, 

We’re  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread, 

As  lang’s  we’re  hale  and  fier : 

“ Mair  spier  na’,  nor  fear  na,”* 

Auld  age  ne’er  mind  a feg, 

The  last  o’t,  the  warst  o’t, 

Is  only  for  to  beg. 

III. 

To  lie  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e’en, 

When  banes  are  craz’d  and  bluid  is  thin, 
Is,  doubtless,  great  distress ! 

Yet  then  content  could  make  us  blest; 
Ev’n  then,  sometimes  we’d  snatch  a taste 
Of  truest  happiness. 

The  honest  heart  that’s  free  frae  a’ 
Intended  fraud  or  guilt, 

However  fortune  kick  the  ba’, 

Has  ay  some  cause  to  smile, 

And  mind  still,  you’ll  find  still, 

A comfort  this  nae  sma’ ; 

Nae  mair  then,  we’ll  care  then, 

Nae  farther  can  we  fa’. 

IV. 

What  tho’,  like  commoners  of  air, 

We  wander  out,  we  know  not  where, 

But  either  house  or  hall  ? 

Yet  nature’s  charms,  the  hills  and  woods. 
The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods, 
Are  free  alike  to  all. 

In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground, 
And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 

With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound, 

To  see  the  coming  year  : 

On  braes  when  we  please,  then, 

We’ll  sit  an’  sovvth  a tune ; 

Syne  rhyme  till’t,  we’ll  time  till’t, 
And  sing  ’t  when  we  hae  done. 

V. 

It’s  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank ; 

It’s  no  in  wealth  like  Lon’on  bank, 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 

It’s  no  in  makin  muckle  mair : 

It’s  no  in  books  ; it’s  no  in  lear, 

To  make  us  truly  blest : 

If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 
And  centre  in  the  breast, 

We  may  b-_'  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 

But  never  can  be  blest ; 

Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures, 

Could  make  us  happy  lang  ; 

The  heart  ay’s  the  part  ay, 

That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

VI. 

Think  ye,  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wha  drudge  and  drive  thro’  wet  and  dry 
Wi’  never-ceasing  toil ; 

* Ramsay. 


27 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Think  ye,  are  we  less  blest  than  they 
Wha  scarcely  tent  us  in  their  way 
As  hardly  worth  their  while  ? 

Alas  ! how  aft  in  haughty  mood, 

God’s  creatures  they  oppress  ! 

Or  else  neglecting  a’  that’s  guid, 

They  riot  in  excess  ! 

Baith  careless,  and  fearless 
Of  either  heav’n  or  hell ! 
Esteeming,  and  deeming 
It’s  a’  an  idle  tale  ! 

VII. 

Then  let  us  cheerfu’  acquiesce  ; 

Nor  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less, 

By  pining  at  our  state  ; 

And,  even  should  misfortunes  come, 

I,  here  wha  sit,  hae  met  wi’  some, 

An’s  thankfu’  for  them  yet. 
rimy  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth ; 

They  let  us  ken  oursel : 

They  make  us  see  the  naked  truth. 

The  real  guid  and  ill. 

Tho’  losses,  and  crosses, 

Be  lessons  right  severe, 

There’s  wit  there,  ye’ll  get  there, 
Ye’ll  find  nae  other  where. 

VIII. 

But  tent  me,  Davie , ace  o’  hearts  ! 

(To  say  aught  less  wad  wrang  the  cartes. 

And  flatt’ry  I detest) 

This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I ; 

And  joys  that  riches  ne’er  could  buy; 

And  joys  the  very  best. 

There’s  -pleasures  o'  the  heart , 

The  lover  an’  the  frien’  ; 

Ye  hae  your  Meg,  your  dearest  part, 

And  I my  darling  Jean  ! 

It  warms  me,  it  charms  me, 

To  mention  but  her  name  : 

It  heats  me,  it  beats  me, 

And  sets  me  a’  on  flame  ! 

IX. 

O’ all  ye  pow’rs  who  rule  above  ! 

O Thou , whose  very  self  art  love  ! 

Thou  know’st  my  words  sincere  ! 

The  life-blood  streaming  thro’ my  heart 
Or  my  more  dear,  immortal  part, 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear  ! 

When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 
Deprive  my  soul  of  rest, 

Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 

Thou  Being,  All-seeing, 

O hear  my  fervent  pray’r ; 

Still  take  her,  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care  ! 

X. 

All  hail,  ye  tender  feelings  dear  ' 

The  smile  of  love,  the  friendly  tear, 

The  sympathetic  glow ; 

Long  since,  this  world’s  thorny  ways 
Had  number’d  out  my  weary  days, 

Had  it  not  been  for  you  ! 

Fate  still  has  bless’d  me  with  a friend. 

In  every  care  and  ill ; 

And  oft  a more  endearing  band, 

A tie  more  tender  still. 

It  lightens,  it  brightens 
The  tenebrific  scene, 


To  meet  with,  and  greet  with 
My  Davie  or  my  Jean. 

XI. 

O,  how  that  name  inspires  my  style  ! 
The  words  come  skelpin  rank  and  file, 
Amaist  before  I ken  ! 

The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine. 

As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nine 
W'ere  glowrin  owre  my  pen. 

My  spaviet  Pegasus  will  Jimp, 

Till  ance  he’s  fairly  het ; 

And  then  he’ll  hilch,  and  stilt,  and  jump, 
An’  rin  an  unco  fit : 

But  least  then,  the  beast  then, 

? Should  rue  this  hasty  ride, 

I’ll  light  now,  and  dight  now 
His  sweaty  wizen’d  hide, 


THE  LAMENT. 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  UNFORTUNATE  ISSUE  OF  A 
friend’s  AMOUR. 


Alas  ! how  oft  does  Goodness  wound  itself 
And  sweet  Affection  prove  the  spring  of  wo  ! 

Home 

I. 

0 paIe  orb’ that  silent  shines, 

While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep! 

J hou  seets  a wretch  that  inly  pines, 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep  ! 
With  wo  I nightly  vigils  keep, 

Beneath  thy  wan,  unwarming  beam  ; 
And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep, 

How  life  and  love  are  all  a dream. 

II. 

I joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 
The  faintly-marked  distant  hill : 

I joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn, 
Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill : 

My  fondly-fluttering  heart,  be  still ! 

a J?0U  bus,y  Pow’r>  Remembrance,  cease  ! 
Ah  ! must  the  agonizing  thrill 
F orever  bar  returning  peace  ! 

m. 

No  idly-feign’d  poetic  pains, 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lamentings  claim, 

No  shepherd’s  pipe— Arcadian  strains; 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame: 

1 beuPHhted  faith  5 the  mutual  flame  ; 

I he  oft  attested  pow’rs  above  : 

The  promis'd  Father's  tender  name  : 

1 hese  were  the  pledges  of  my  love  ! 

IV. 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms, 

How  have  the  raptur’d  moments  flown ! 
How  have  I wish’d  for  fortune’s  charms, 
t or  her  dear  sake,  and  her’s  alone  ! 

And  must  I think  it ! is  she  gone, 

My  secret  heart’s  exulting  boast? 

And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan? 

And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost  ? 


28 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


V. 

Oh  ! can  she  bear  so  base  a heart, 

So  lost  to  honor,  lost  to  truth, 

As  from  the  fondest  lover  part, 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth  ! 

Alas ! life’s  path  may  be  unsmooth  ; 

Her  way  lead  far  thro’  rough  distress  ! 
Then  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will  soothe, 
Her  sorrows  share,  and  make  them  less  1 

VI. 

Ye  winged  hours,  that  o’er  us  past, 
Enraptur’d  more,  the  more  enjoy’d, 

Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast, 

My  fondly-treasur’d  thoughts  employ’d. 
That  breast  how  dreary  now,  and  void, 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room ! 

Ev’n  ev’ry  ray  of  hope  destroy’d, 

And  not  a wish  to  gild  the  gloom  ! 

VII. 

The  morn  that  warns  th’  approaching  day, 
Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  wo  : 

I see  the  hours  in  long  array, 

That  I must  suffer,  lingering,  slow. 

Full  many  a pang,  and  many  a throe, 

Keen  recollection’s  direful  train, 

Must  wring  my  soul,  ere  Phoebus,  low, 

Shall  kiss  the  distant,  western  main. 

VIII. 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I try, 

Sore -harass’d  out  with  care  and  grief, 

My  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-worn  eye, 

Keep  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief : 

Or  if  I slumber,  fancy,  chief, 

Reigns  haggard-wild  in  sore  affright : 

Ev’n  day,  ail- bitter,  brings  relief, 

From  such  a horror-breathing  night. 

IX. 

O ! thou  bright  queen,  who  o’er  th’  expanse, 
Nowt  highest  reign’st,  with  boundless  sway  ! 
Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 

Observ’d  us,  fondly-wand’ring,  stray  ! 

The  time,  unheeded,  sped  away, 

While  love’s  luxurious  pulse  beat  high, 
Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray, 

To  mark  the  mutual  kindling  eye. 

X. 

Oh  ! scenes  in  strong  remembrance  set ! 

Scenes,  never,  never,  to  return ! 

Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I forget, 

Again  I feel,  again  I burn  ! 

From  ev’ry  joy  and  pleasure  torn, 

Life’s  w’oary  vale  I’ll  wander  thro’, 

And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I’ll  mourn 
A faithless  woman’s  broken  vow. 


DESPONDENCY, 

AN  ODE. 

I. 

Oppress’d  with  grief,  oppress’d  with  care, 
A burden  more  than  I can  bear, 

I sit  me  down  and  sigh  : 

O life ! thou  art  a galling  load, 

Along  a rough,  a weary  road, 

To  wretches  such  as  I ! 


Dim  backward  as  I cast  my  view', 

What  sick’ning  scenes  appear ! 

What  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  thro’, 

Too  justly  I may  fear ! 

Still  caring,  despairing, 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom ; 

My  w'oes  here  shall  close  ne’er, 

But  with  the  closing  tomb  ! 

II. 

Happy,  ye  sons  of  busy  life, 

Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife, 

No  other  view  regard  ! 

Ev’n  when  the  wished  end ’s  deny’d, 

Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  ply’d, 

They  bring  their  own  reward  : 

Whilst  I,  a hope-abandon’ d wight, 

Unfitted  with  an  aim, 

Meet  ev’ry  sad  returning  night, 

And  joyless  morn  the  same ; 

You,  bustling,  and  justling. 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain: 

I,  listless,  yet  restless, 

Find  every  prospect  vain. 

III. 

How  blest  the  Solitary’s  lot, 

Who,  all-forgetting,  all-forgot, 

Within  his  humble  cell, 

The  cavern  wild,  with  tangling  roots, 

Sits  o’er  his  newly-gather’d  fruits, 

Beside  his  crystal  well ! 

Or,  haply,  to  his  ev’ning  thought, 

By  unfrequented  stream, 

The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought, 

A faint  collected  dream  : 

While  praising,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  heav’non  high, 

As  wand’ring,  meand’ring, 

He  views  the  solemn  sky. 

IV. 

Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  plac’d 
Where  never  human  footstep  trac’d, 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part ; 

The  lucky  moment  to  improve, 

And  just  to  stop,  andjwst  to  move, 

With  self-respecting  art : 

But  ah  ! those  pleasures,  love,  and  joys, 
Which  I too  keenly  taste, 

The  Solitary  can  despise, 

Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest . 

He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not, 

Or  human  love  or  hate, 

Whilst  I here,  must  cry  here, 

At  perfidy  ingrate  ! v 

V. 

Oh ! enviable,  early  days, 

When  dancing  thoughtless  pleasure’s  maze. 
To  care,  to  guilt  unknown  ! 

How  ill  exchang’d  for  riper  times, 

To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes, 

Of  others,  or  my  own  ! 

Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport, 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush, 

Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court, 

When  manhood  is  your  wish : 

The  losses,  the  crosses, 

That  active  man  engage  ! 

The  fears  all,  the  tears  all, 

Of  dim- declining  age. 


BURNS’  POEMS 


2D 


WINTER, 

A DIRGE. 

I. 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw  ; 

Or,  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 
The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw  : 

While  tumbling  brown,  the  burn  comes  down, 
And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae  ; 

And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest 
And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

II. 

The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o’ercast,”* 

The  joyless  winter-day, 

Let  others  fear,  to  me  more  dear 
Than  all  the  pride  of  May  : 

The  tempest’s  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul, 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join, 

The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine. 

III. 

Thou  Povi’r  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 
These  woes  of  mine  fulfill, 

Here,  firm,  I rest,  they  must  be  best, 

Because  they  are  Thy  Will: 

Then  all  I want  (O,  do  thou  grant 
This  one  request  of  mine  !) 

Since  to  enjoy  thou  dost  deny, 

Assist  me  to  resign. 


THE 

COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGIIT. 

INSCRIBED  TO  R.  A****,  ESQ. 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a disdainful  smile, 

The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor.— GRAY. 

I. 

My  lov’d,  my  honor’d,  much  respected  friend! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  ; 

With  honest  pride  I scorn  each  selfish  end  ; 

My  dearest  meed,  a friend’s  esteem  and  praise: 
To  you  I sing,  in  simple  Scottish,  lavs, 

The  lowly  train  in  life’s  sequester’d  scene  ; 

The  npfive  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways  : 
What  A****  in  a j&flttage  would  have  been  ; 

Ah!  tho’  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I ween. 

II. 

Novemhnfchill  blaws  loud  wi’  angry  sugh  ; 

Thd  short’ning  Wjnter-day  is  near  a close  ; 

The  miry  beasts  retr'eating  frae  the  pleugh, 

The  black’ningtrains  o’  craws  to  their  repose  : 
The  toil-worn  C'gtter  frae  his  labor  goes, 

This  ni?ht.  his  Weekly  toil  is  at  an  end. 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 

And  weary,  o’er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward 
bend. 

III. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  apears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ; 

Th’  expectant  icee-thivys . toddlin,  stacker  thro’ 

To  meet  their  Dad.  wi’  flichterin  noise  an’  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily. 

His  clean  bearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wife’s  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prating  on  his  knee. 

Does  a’  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile, 

An’  makes  himquite  forget  his  labor  an’  his  toil. 

*Dr.  Young. 


IV. 

Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  rottn’; 

Some  ca’  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A cannie  errand  to  a neebor  town  : 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown. 

In  youthfu’  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e’e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a braw  new  gown, 
Or  deposit  her  sair-vvon  penny-fee, 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 


V. 

Wi’ joy  unfeign’d  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An’  each  for  other’s  welfare  kindly  spiers  : 

The  social  hours,  swift-wing’d,  unnotic’d  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  lie  sees  or  hears  ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years  j 
Anticipation  forward  points  t lie  view. 

The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  an’  her  sheers, 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  vveel ’s  the  new  ; 
The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due. 

VI. 

Their  master’s  an’  their  mistress’s  command, 

The  younkers  a’  are  warned  to  obey  ; 

“An’  mind  their  labors  wi’  an  eydent  hand. 

An  ne’er,  tho’  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or  play  : 

An’  O ! be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 

An’  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an’ night! 

Lest  in  temptation’s  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might : 

They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright.” 

VII. 

But  hark  ! a rap  comes  gently  to  the  door  ; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o’  the  same, 

Tells  how  a neebor  lad  cam  o’er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e’e,  and  flush  her  cheek  ; 
With  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 

Weel  pleas’d  the  mother  hears,  it’s  nae  wild,  worth- 
less rake. 

VIII. 

Wi’  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 

A strappan  youth  ; he  taks  the  mother’s  eye  ; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit’s  nae  ill  ta’en  ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  ploughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster’s  artless  heart  o’erflows  wi’  joy. 
But  blate  and  laithfu’,  scarce  can  weel  behave; 
The  mother,  wi’  a woman’s  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu’  and  sae  grave; 
Weel  pleas’d  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the 
lave. 


O happy  love  ! where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O heart-felt  raptures  ! bliss  beyond  compare ! 
I’ve  paced  much.this  weary  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 

“If  Heaven  a draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

’Tis  when  a youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other’s  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev’n- 
ing  gale.” 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a heart — 

A wretch  ! a villain  ! lost  to  love  and  truth ! 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjur’d  arts!  dissembling  smooth  ! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil’d  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o’er  their  child  I 
Then  paints  the  ruin’d  maid,  and  their  distraction 
wild  ? 


But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board,  ’ 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o’  Scotia’s  food; 
The  soupe  their  only  Hawkie  does  afford, 

That  ’yont  the  Italian  snugly  chows  her  cood  s 


POEMS 


30  BURNS’ 


The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain’d  kebbuck,  fell, 
An’  aft  he’s  prest,  an’  aft  he  ca’s  it  guid  ; 

The  frugal  vvifie,  garrulous  will  tell, 

How  ’twas  a towmond  auld,  sin’  lint  was  i’  the  bell. 

XII. 

The  cheerfu’  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face. 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a circle  wide  ; 

The  sire  turns  o’er,  wi’  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha- Bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride  : 

His  bonnet  rev’rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an’  bare  ; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a portion  with  judicious  care  ; 

Ajid  “ Let  us  worship  God  !”  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

XIII. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise, 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name, 

Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heav’nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  ; 

Compar’d  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 

The  tickl’d  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise ; 

Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator’s  praise. 

XIV. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sar.red  page. 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 

Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 

Or  how  Ihe  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  heaven’s  avenging  ire ; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry  ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; ' 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme. 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed  ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name. 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head  ; 

How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped  ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a land  : 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished. 

Saw  in  the  sun  a mighty  angel  stand ; 

And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounc’d  by 
Heav’n’s  command. 

XVI. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven’s  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  : 

Hope  “springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,”* 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ; 

While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

XVII. 

Compar’d  with  this,  how  poor  Religion’s  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 
Devotion’s  ev’ry  grace,  except  the  heart  l 
The  Pow'r,  incens’d,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleas’d,  the  language  of  the  soul; 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

XVIII. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev’ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven’s  clam’rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  with  flow’ry  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 

But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

* Pope’s  Windsor  Forest. 


XIX. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 
That  makes  her  lov’d  at  home,  rever’d  abroad  : 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

“An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of  God:” 

And  certes,  in  fair  virtue’s  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  ; 

What  is  a lor  filing’s  pomp  ! a cumbrous  load. 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin’d  1 

XX. 

O Scotia  ! my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil, 

Be  bless’d  with  health,  and  peace,  and  calm  con- 
tent ! 

And,  O ! may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury’s  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 

Then,  howe’er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 

And  stand  a wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov’d  Isle. 

XXI. 

O Thou ! who  pour’d  the  patriotic  tide 
That  stream’d  thro’  Wallace's  undaunted  heart ; 

Who  dar’d  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 

(The  patriot’s  God,  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 

O never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot  bard, 

In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN, 

A DIRGE. 

I. 

When  chill  November’s  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 

One  ev’ning,  as  I wander’d  forth 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 

I spy’d  a man,  whose  aged  step 
Seem’d  weary,  worn  with  care  ; 

His  face  was  furrow’d  o’er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

II. 

lt  Young  stranger,  whither  wandrest  thou?” 
Began  the  reverend  sage  ; 

“ Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasure’s  rage  ; 

Or  haply,  press’d  with  cares  and  woes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 

To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 
The  miseries  of  man  ! 

III. 

“ The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 
Out-spreading  far  and  wide. 

Where  hundreds  labor  to  support 
A haughty  lordling’s  pride  ; 

I’ve  seen  yon  weary  winter-sun 
Twice  forty  times  return  ; 

And  ev’ry  time  has  added  proofs. 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

IV. 

“ O man  ! while  in  thy  early  years, 
flow  prodigal  of  time  1 

Mispending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ' 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


31 


Alternate  follies  take  the  sway 
Licentious  passions  burn  ; 

Which  tenfold  force  gives  nature’s  law, 
i hat  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

V. 

“Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood’s  active  might  ; 

Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 
Supported  is  his  right  : 

But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 

Then  age  and  want,  oh  ! ill  match'd  pair, 
ohow  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

VI. 

“ A few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure’s  lap  carest ; 

Yet  think  not,  all  the  rich  and  great 
Are  likewise  truly  blest. 

But’  oh  1 what  crowds  in  ev’ry  land 
Are  wretched  and  forlorn  ; 

Thro’  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

VH. 

“Many  and  sharp  the  num’rous  ills 
Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 

More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves 
Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 

And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 
The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 

Man’s  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  1 

VIII. 

“ See  yonder  poor,  o’erlabor’d  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 

Who  begs  a brother  of  the  earth 
To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 

And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 
The  poor  petition  spurn, 

Unmindful,  tho’  a weeping  wife 
And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

IX. 

“If  I’m  design’d  yon  lordling’s  slave,— 
By  nature’s  law  design’d, 

Why  was  an  independent  wish 
E’er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 

If  not,  why  am  I subject  to 
His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  pow’r 
To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

. X. 

Yet,  let  not  this,  too  much,  my  son. 
Disturb  thy  youthful  breast: 

This  partial  view  of  human-kind 
Is  surely  not  the  last ! 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man, 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born. 

Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 
1 o comfort  those  that  mourn ! 

XI. 

“ ° !,the  poor  man’s  dearest  friend, 

1 he  kindest  and  the  best ! 

Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limb3 
Are  laid  with  thee  at.  rest ! 

The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 
from  pomp  and  pleasure  torn: 

But,  °h ! a bless’d  relief  to  those 
That  weary-laden  mourn!” 


A 

PRAYER  IN  THE  PROSPECT 

O F 

DEATH. 

I. 

O thou  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 
Of  all  my  hope  and  fear! 

In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour 
Perhaps  I must  appear! 

II. 

If  I have  wander’d  in  those  paths 
Of  life  I ought  to  shun, 

As \ something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 
Remonstrates  I have  done  ; 

III. 

Th°u  know’st  that  thou  hast  formed  me 
With  passions  wild  and  strong  ; 

And  list’ning  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

IV. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short, 
Or  frailty  stept  aside, 

Do  thou,  All-Good  ! for  such  thou  art, 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

V. 

Where  with  intention  I have  err’d, 

No  other  plea  I have, 

But,  Thou  art  good;  and  goodness  still 
Delighteth  to  forgive. 


STANZAS 

ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

Why  am  I loath  to  leave  this  earthly  scene? 

Have  I so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms  ? 
borne  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of  ill  between  : 
borne  gleams  of  sunshine  ’mid  renewing 
storms : 

Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms? 

Or  death’s  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode? 
hor  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms ; 

1 tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 

And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

Fain  would  I say,  “ Forgive  my  foul  offence  !” 
r am  promise  never  more  to  disobey  ; 

But,  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense, 
Again  I might  desert  fair  virtue’s  way ; 

Again  in  folly’s  path  might  go  astray  • 

Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man ; 

^ ow  shouId  I f°r  heavenly  mercy  pray, 
wu  • act  so-counter  heavenly  mercy’s  plan  ? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourn’d,  yet  to  temptation 
ran  ? * 

0 thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below ! 

• H 1 dafe  a lifted  eye  to  Thee, 

1 hy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow, 

stdl  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea  : 

With  that  controlling  pow’r  assist  ev’n  me, 
those  headlong,  furious  passions  to  confine: 

* unfit  I feel  my  pow’rs  to  be, 

_ rule  their  torrent  in  th’  allowed  line; 

G,  aid  me  with  thy  help,  Omnipotence  Divine  ! 


32  BURNS’ 

LYING  AT  A REVEREND  FRIEND’S  HOUSE  ONE  NIGHT, 
THE  AUTHOR  LEFT 

THE  FOLLOWING  VERSES 

IN  TIIE  ROOM  WHERE  HE  SLEPT. 

I. 

O thou  dread  Pow’r,  who  reign’st  above ! 

I know  thou  wilt  me  hear  : 

When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love, 

I make  my  pray’r  sincere. 

II. 

The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stroke, 

Long,  long,  be  pleas’d  to  spare  ! 

To  bless  his  little  filial  flock, 

And  show  what  good  men  are. 

III. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 
With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 

O,  bless  her  with  a mother’s  joys, 

But  spare  a mother’s  tears  ! 

IV. 

Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling  youth, 

In  manhood’s  dawning  blush  ; 

Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 

Up  to  a parent’s  wish  ! 

V. 

The  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band, 

With  earnest  tears  I pray, 

Thou  know’ st  the  snares  on  ev’ry  hand, 
Guide  thou  their  steps  alway  ! 

VI. 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast. 

O’er  life’s  rough  ocean  driv’n, 

May  they  rejoice,  no  wand’rer  lost, 

A family  in  Heav’n  ! 


THE  FIRST  PSALM. 

The  man,  in  life  wherever  plac'd, 
Hath  happiness  in  store, 

Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked’s  way, 
Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore  ! 

Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 
Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 

But  with  humility  and  awe 
Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow  ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high, 
And  firm  the  root  below. 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt, 
Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast, 

And  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 
Before  the  sweeping  blast. 

For  why  ? that  God  the  good  adore, 
Hath  giv’n  them  peace  and  rest, 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne’er  be  truly  blest. 


POEMS. 

A PRAYER, 

UNDER  THE  PRESSURE  OF  VIOLENT  ANGUISH. 

O thou  Great  Being  ! what  thou  art 
Surpasses  me  to  know  : 

Yet  sure  I am,  that  known  to  thee 
Are  all  thy  works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  thee  stands, 

All  wretched  and  distrest ; 

Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 
Obey  thy  high  behest. 

Sure  thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 
From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 

O,  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears, 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death  ! 

But  if  I must  afflicted  be, 

To  suit  some  wild  design  ; 

Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves 
To  bear  and  not  repine  ! 


THE 

first  six  verses  of  the  nintieth 

PSALM. 

0 thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 
Of  all  the  human  race  ! 

Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 
Their  stay  and  dwelling  place  ! 

Before  the  mountains  heav’d  their  heads 
Beneath  thy  forming  hand, 

Before  this  pond’rous  globe  itself, 

Arose  at  thy  command : 

That  pow’r  which  rais’d,  and  still  upholds 
This  universal  frame, 

From  countless,  unbeginning  time 
Was  ever  still  the  same. 

Those  mighty  periods  of  years 
Which  seem  to  us  so  vast, 

Appear  no  more  before  thy  sight 
Than  yesterday  that’s  past. 

Thou  giv’st  the  word : thy  creature,  man, 
Is  to  existence  brought : 

Again  thou  say’st,  “Ye  sons  of  men, 
Return  ye  into  nought !” 

Thou  layest  them,  with  all  their  cares, 

In  everlasting  sleep  ; 

As  with  a flood  thou  tak’st  them  off 
With  overwhelming  sweep. 

They  flourish  like  the  morning  flow’r, 

In  beauty’s  pride  array’d ; 

But  long  ere  night,  cut  down  it  lies, 

All  wither’d  and  decay’d. 


TO  A MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

ON  turning  one  down  with  the  plough  in 
APRIL,  1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow’r, 

Thou’s  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 

For  I maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


33 


To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow’r, 
Thou  bonnie  gem. 


Tho’  thick’ning,  and  black’ning, 
Round  my  devoted  head. 


Alas ! it’s  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 

The  bonnie  Lark,  companion  meet ! 

Bending  thee  ’mang  the  dewy  weet  ! 

Wi’  spreckled  breast; 
When  upward-springing,  blythe  to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 

Scarce  rear’d  above  the  parent  earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow’rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High  shelt’ring  woods  and  wa’s  maun  shield, 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O’  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  stihble -field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 

Thy  snawy  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 

Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 

Sweet  flow' ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betray’d, 

And  guileless  trust, 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil’d,  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  starr’d ! 
Unskillful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  ■prudent  lore. , 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o’er! 

Such  fate  of  suffering  worth  is  giv’n, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv’n, 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv’n, 

To  mis’ry’s  brink, 

Till  wrench’d  of  ev’ry  stay  but  Heav'n , 

He,  ruin’d,  sink ! 

E’vn  thou  who  mourn’st  the  Daisy’s  fate 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date  ; 

Stern  Ruin’s  plough-share  drives  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crush’d  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom ! 


TO  RUIN. 

I. 

All  hail ! inexorable  lord! 

At  whose  destruction-breathing  word, 
The  mightiest  empires  fall ! 

Thy  cruel  wo-delighted  train, 

The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A sullen  welcome,  all ! 

With  stern-resolv’d,  despairing  eyes, 

I see  each  aimed  dart ; 

For  one  has  cut  my  dearest  tie , 

And  quivers  in  my  heart : 

Then  low’ring,  and  pouring. 

The  storm  no  more  I dread  ; 


II. 

And.  thou  grim  pow’r,  by  life  abhorr’d, 
While  life  a pleasure  can  afford, 

0 ! hear  a wretch’s  pray’r  ! 

No  more  I shrink  appall'd,  afraid; 

I court,  I beg  thy  friendly  aid, 

To  close  this  scene  of  care  ! 

When  shall  my  soul  in  silent  peace, 
Resign  life’s  joyless  day  ; 

My  weary  heart  its  throbbing  cease, 
Cold  mould’ring  in  the  clay  ? 

No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 

To  stain  my  lifeless  face  ; 
Enclasped,  and  grasped 
Within  thy  cold  embrace  ! 


TO  MISS  L — , 

with  beattie’s  poems  as  a new-year’s  gift, 

JAN.  1,  1787. 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  annual  round  have  driv’n, 

And  you,  tho’  scarce  in  maiden  prime, 

Are  so  much  nearer  heav’n. 

No  gifts  have  I from  Indian  coasts, 

The  infant  year  to  hail ; 

I send  you  more  than  India  boasts, 

In  Edwbi's  simple  tale. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 
Is  charg’d,  perhaps,  too  true ; 

But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 
An  Edwin  still  to  you  ! 


EPISTLE  TO  A YOUNG  FRIEND. 

MAY— 1786. 

I. 

I lang  hae  thought,  my  youthfu’  friend, 

A something  to  have  sent  you, 

Tho’  it  should  serve  nae  other  end 
Than  just  a kind  memento  ; 

But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang, 

Let  time  and  chance  determine ; 

Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a sang, 

Perhaps  turn  out  a sermon. 

II. 

Ye’ll  try  the  world  soon,  my  lad. 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me. 

Ye’ll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye. 

For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 
Ev’n  when  your  end’s  attained  ; 

And  a’  your  views  may  come  to  nought, 
Where  ev’ry  nerve  is  strained. 

III. 

I’ll  no  say,  men  are  villains  a’; 

The  real,  harden’d  wicked, 

Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law, 

Are  to  a few  restricked : 

But  och  ! mankind  are  unco  weak, 

An’  little  to  be  trusted ; 


34  BURNS’ 

If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake, 

It’s  rarely  right  adjusted ! 

IV. 

Yet  they  wha  fa’  in  fortune’s  strife, 

Their  fate  we  should  nae  censure, 

For  still  th’  important  end  of  life, 

They  equally  may  answer  ; 

A man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 

Tho’  poortith  hourly  stare  him  ; 

A man  may  tak  a neebor’s  part, 

Y et  hae  na  cash  to  spare  him. 

V 

Ay  free,  affhan’  your  story  tell, 

When  wi’  a bosom  crony  ; 

But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel 
Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 

Conceal  yoursel  as  weel’s  ye  can 
Frae  critical  dissection  ; 

But  keek  thro’  ev’ry  other  man, 

Wi’  sharpen’d,  slee  inspection. 

VI. 

The  sacred  lowe  o’  weel-plac’d  love, 
Luxuriantly  indulge  it ; 

But  never  tempt  th’  illicit  rove, 

Tho’naething  should  divulge  it ! 

I waive  the  quantum  o’  the  sin, 

The  hazard  of  concealing  ; 

But  och  ! it  hardens  a’  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  ! 

VII. 

To  catch  dame  Fortune’s  golden  smile, 
Assiduous  wait  upon  her ; 

And  gather  gear  by  ev’ry  wile 
That’s  justified  by  honor  ; 

Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a hedge, 

Not  for  a train-attendant ; 

But  for  the  glorious  privilege 
Of  being  independnet. 

VIII. 

The  fear  o’  hell’s  a hangman’s  whip, 

To  haud  the  wretch  in  order  ; 

But  where  ye  feel  your  honor  grip, 

Let  that  ay  be  your  border ; 

Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause — 

Debat  a’  side  pretences  ; 

And  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

IX. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere, 

Must  sure  become  the  creature  ; 

But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 

And  ev’n  the  rigid  feature  : 

Yet  ne’er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 

Be  complaisance  extended  ; 

An  Atheist’s  laugh’s  a poor  exchange 
For  Deity  offended ! 

X. 

When  ranting  round  in  pleasure’s  ring, 
Religion  may  be  blinded  ; 

Or  if  she  gie  a random  sting , 

It  may  be  little  minded  ; 

But  when  on  life  we’re  tempest-driv’n, 

A conscience  but  a canker — 

A correspondence  fix’d  wi’  Heav’n, 

Is  sure  a noble  anchor  ! 


POEMS. 

XI. 

Adieu,  dear,  amiable  youth  ! 

Your  heart  can  ne’er  be  wanting: 

May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth, 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting  ! 

In  ploughman  phrase,  “ God  send  you  speed,” 
Still  daily  to  grow  wiser : 

And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede, 

Than  ever  did  th’  adviser ! 


ON  A SCOTCH  BARD 

GONE  TO  THE  WEST  INDIES. 

A’  ye  wha  live  by  soups  o’  drink, 

A’ ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink, 

A’ ye  wha  live  and  never  think, 

Come  mourn  wi’  me  ! 
Our  billie's  gien  us  a’  a jink, 

An’  owre  the  sea. 

Lament  him  a’  ye  rantin  core, 

Wha  dearly  like  a random-splore, 

Nae  mair  he’ll  join  the  merry -roar, 

In  social  key  ; 

For  now  he’s  ta’en  anither  shore, 

An’  owre  the  sea. 

The  bonnie  lasses  weel  may  wiss  him, 
And  in  their  dear  petitions  place  him  : 

The  widows,  wives,  an’  a’  may  bless  him, 
Wi’  tearfu’  e’e  ; 

For  weel  I wat  they’ll  sairly  miss  him 

That’s  owre  the  sea. 

O Fortune,  they  hae  room  to  grumble  ! 
Hadst  thou  ta’en  aff  some  drowsy  bummle, 
Wha  can  do  nought  but  fyke  an’  fumble, 
’Twad  been  nae  plea  ; 
But  he  was  gleg  as  ony  wumble, 

That’s  owre  the  sea. 

Auld,  cantie  Klye  may  weepers  wear, 
An’  stain  them  wi’  the  saut,  saut  tear ; 
’Twill  mak  her  poor  auld  heart,  I fear, 

In  flinders  flee ; 

He  was  her  laureate  monie  a year, 

That’s  owre  the  sea. 

He  saw  misfortune’s  cauld  nor-west 
Lang  mustering  up  a bitter  blast ; 

A jillet  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be  ! 

So,  took  a birth  afore  the  mast, 

An’  owre  the  sea. 

To  tremble  under  Fortune’s  cummock, 
On  scarce  a bellyfu’o’  drummock, 

Wi’  his  proud,  independent  stomach, 

Could  ill  agree ; 

So,  row’t  his  hurdies  in  a hammock, 

An’  owre  the  sea. 

He  ne’er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding, 
Yet  coin  his  pouches  wad  na  bide  in ; 

Wi’  him  it  ne’er  was  under  hiding  ; 

He  dealt  it  free  : 

The  muse  was  a’  that  he  took  pride  in, 
That’s  owre  the  sea. 

Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel, 

An’  hap  him  in  a cozie  biel : 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


35 


Ye’ll  find  him  ay  a dainty  chiel, 

And  fou’  o' glee  ; 

He  wad  na  wrang’d  the  vera  deil, 

That’s  owre  the  sea. 

Fareweel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie  ! 
Your  native  soil  was  right  ill- willie  ; 

But  may  ye  flourish  like  a lily, 

Now  bonnilie  ! 

I’ll  toast  ye  in  my  hindmost  gillie, 

Tho’  owre  the  sea. 


TO  A HAGGIS, 

Fair  fa’  your  honest,  sonsie  face, 

Great  chieftain  o’  the  puddin-race  ! 

Aboon  them  a’  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  thairm, 
Weel  are  ye  wrordy  of  a grace 

As  lang’s  my  arm. 

The  groaning  trencher  there  ye  fill, 

Your  hurdies  like  a distant  hill, 

Your  pin  wad  help  to  mend  a mill 
In  time  o’  need, 

While  thro’  your  pores  the  dews  distill 
Like  amber  bead. 

His  knife  see  rustic  labor  dight, 

An’  cut  you  up  with  ready  slight, 

Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright 
Like  onie  ditch ; 

And  then,  O what  a glorious  sight, 

Warm-reekin,  rich ! 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  an’  strive, 
Deil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive. 

Till  a’  their  weel-swall’d  kytes  belyve 

Are  bent  like  drums  ; 
Then  auld  guidman,  maist  like  to  ryve, 
Bethankit  hums. 

Is  there  that  o’er  his  French  ragout , 

Or  olio  that  wad  straw  a sow, 

Ox  fricassee  wad  mak  her  spew 

Wi’  perfect  sconner, 
Looks  down  wi’  sneering,  scornfu’  view 
On  sic  a dinner  ? 

Poor  devil ! see  him  owre  his  trash, 

As  feckless  as  a wither’d  rash, 

His  spindle  shank  a guid  whip  lash, 

His  nieve  a nit ; 

Thro’  bloody  flood  or  field  to  dash, 

O how  unfit ! 

But  mark  the  rustic,  haggis-fed , 

The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread, 

Clap  in  his  walie  nieve  a blade, 

He’ll  mak  it  whissle ; 
An’  legs,  an’  arms,  an’  heads  will  sned, 

Like  taps  o’  thrissle. 

Ye  pow’rs,  wha  mak  mankind  your  care, 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o’  fare, 

Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware 
That  jaups  in  luggies ; 
But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu’  pray’r, 

Gie  her  a Haggis  ! 


A DEDICATION 

TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  ESQ. 

Expect  na.  Sir,  in  this  narration, 

A fleechin,  fleth’rin  dedication, 

To  roose  you  up,  an’  ca’  you  guid, 

An’  sprung  o’  great  an’  noble  bluid, 

Because  ye’re  surnam’d  like  his  grace, 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race  ; 

Then  when  I’m  tir’d — and  sae  are  ye, 

Wi’  mony  a fulsome,  sinfti’  lie, 

Set  up  a face,  how  I stop  short, 

For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 

This  may  do — maun  do,  Sir,  wi’  them  wha 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a wamefou ; 
For  me  ! sae  laigh  I need  na  now, 

For,  Lord  be  thankit,  1 can  plough  ; 

And  when  I downa  yoke  a naig, 

Then,  Lord  be  thankit,  I can  beg  ; 

Sae  I shall  say,  an’  that’s  nae  flatt’rin, 

It’s  just  sic  poet,  an’  sic  patron. 

The  Poet,  some  guid  angle  help  him, 

Or  else,  I fear  some  ill  ane  skelp  him, 

He  may  do  weel  for  a’  lie’s  done  yet, 

But  only  he’s  no  just  begun  yet. 

The  Patron,  (Sir,  ye  maun  forgie  me, 

I winna  lie,  come  what  will  o’  me) 

On  ev’ry  hand  it  will  allow’d  be, 

He’s  just — nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I readily  and  freely  grant, 

He  downa  see  a poor  man  want ; 

What’s  no  his  ain  he  winna  tak  it, 

What  ance  he  says,  he  winna  break  it ; 

Ought  he  can  lend  he’ll  no  refus’t, 

Till  aft  his  guidness  is  abus’d : 

And  rascals  whyles  that  do  him  wrang, 

Ev’n  that,  he  does  na  mind  it  lang  : 

As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father, 

He  does  na  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  then,  na  thanks  to  him  for  a’  that, 

Nae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca’  that ; 

It’s  naethiing  but  a milder  feature, 

Of  our  poor,  sinfu’,  corrupt  nature  ! 

Ye’ll  get  the  best  o’  moral  works, 

Mang  black  Gentoos  and  pagan  Turks, 

Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 

Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy, 

That  he’s  the  poor  man’s  friend  in  need, 

The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 

It’s  no  thro’  terror  of  d-mn-tion; 

It’s  just  a carnal  inclination. 

Morality,  thou  deadly  bane, 

Thy  tens  o’  thousands  thou  hast  slain ! 

Vain  is  his  hope,  whose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice  ! 

No — stretch  a point  to  catch  a plack ; 

Abuse  a brother  to  his  back  ; 

Steal  thro’  a winnock  frae  a wh-re, 

But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door: 

Be  to  the  poor  like  onie  whunstane, 

And  haud  their  noses  to  the  grunstane, 

Ply  every  art  o’  legal  thieving; 

No  matter,  stick  to  sound  believing. 

Learn  three-mile  pray’rs,  and  half-mile  graces, 
Wi’  weel-spread  looves,  an’  lang  wry  faces ; 


36 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Grunt  up  a solemn,  lengthen’d  groan, 

And  damn  a’  parties  but  your  own; 

I’ll  warrant  then,  ye’re  nae  deceiver, 

A steady,  sturdy,  staunch  believer. 

0 ye  wha  leave  the  springs  of  C-lv-n, 

-For  gumlie  dubs  of  your  ain  delvin  ! 

Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 

Ye’ll  some  day  squeal  in  quaking  terror  ! 
When  vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath, 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath ; 

When  Ruin,  with  his  sweeping  besom, 

Just  frets  till  Heav’n  commission  gie3  him: 
While  o’er  the  harp  pale  mis’ry  moans, 

And  strikes  the  ever  deep’ning  tones, 

Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans  ! 

Your  pardon,  Sir,  for  this  digression, 

I maist  forgat  my  dedication  ; 

But  when  divinity  comes  cross  me, 

My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 

So,  Sir,  ye  see  ’twas  nae  daft  vapor, 

But  I maturely  thought  it  proper, 

When  a’  my  work  I did  review, 

To  dedicate  them,  Sir,  to  You  : 

Because  (ye  need  na  talc  it  ill) 

I thought  them  something  like  yoursel. 

Then  patronize  them  wi’  your  favor, 

And  your  petitioner  shall  ever — 

I had  amaist  said,  ever  pray, 

But  that’s  a word  I need  na  say : 

For  prayin  I hae  little  skill  o’t ; 

I’m  baith  dead-sweer,  an’  wretched  ill  o’t; 
But  I’se  repeat  each  poor  man’s  pray'r , 

That  kens  or  hears  about  you,  Sir — 

“ May  ne’er  misfortune’s  gowling  bark, 
Howl  thro’  the  dwelling  o’  the  Clerk  ! 

May  ne’er  his  gen’rous,  honest  heart, 

For  that  same  gen’rous  spirit  smart ! 

May  K******’s  far  honor’d  name 
Lang  beet  his  hymeneal  flame, 

Till  H*******’s,  at  least  a dizen, 

Are  frae  their  nuptial  labors  risen  ; 

Five  bonnie  lasses  round  their  table, 

And  seven  braw  fellows,  stout  an’  able 
To  serve  their  king  and  country  weel, 

By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel! 

May  health  and  peace,  with  mutual  rays, 
Shine  on  the  evening  o’  his  days  ; 

Till  his  wee  curlie  John's  ier-oe, 

When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow, 

The  last,  sad,  mournful  rites  bestow!” 

1 will  not  wind  a lang  conclusion, 

Wi’  complementary  effusion : 

But  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavors 
Are  blest  with  Fortune’s  smiles  and  favors. 
T am,  dear  Sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 

Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  if  (which  Pow’rs  above  prevent!) 

That  iron-hearted  carl.  Want, 

Attended  in  his  grim  advances, 

By  sad  mistake  and  black  mischances, 
While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fly  him, 
Make  you  as  poor  a dog  as  I am, 

Y our  humble  servant  then  no  more  ; 

For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor* 

But  by  a poor  man’s  hopes  in  Ileav’n! 
While  recollection's  pow’r  is  given, 

If.  in  the  vale  of  humble  life, 

The  victim  sad  of  fortune’s  strife, 


I,  thro’  the  tender  gushing  tear, 

Should  recognize  my  master  dear, 

If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together, 

Then,  Sir,  your  hand,— my  friend  and  brother. 

—•»>+#  © ©+*,.— 

TO  A LOUSE, 

ON  SEEING  ONE  ON  A LADY’S  BONNET  AT 
CHURCH. 

Ha  ! whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie  ! 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly  ! 

I canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely, 

Owre  gauze  and  lace  ; 

Tho’  faith,  I fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 
On  sic  a place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin,  blastit  wonner, 

Detested,  shunn’d  by  saint  an’  sinner, 

How  dare  ye  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a lady  ! 

Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner 
On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar’s  haflet  squattle  ; 
Where  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle 
Wi’  ither  kindred,  jumpin  cattle, 

In  shoals  and  nations  ; 
Whare  horn  or  lane  ne’er  dare  unsettle 
Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  haud  ye  there,  ye’re  out  o’  sight, 
Below  the  fatt’rils,  snug  an’  tight : 

Na,  faith  ye  yet ! ye’ll  no  be  right 

Till  ye’ve  got  on  it, 

The  vera  tapmost,  tow’ ring  height 
O’  Miss's  bonnet . 

My  sooth ! right bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out, 
As  plump,  and  gray  as  onie  grozet ; 

O for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum, 

I’d  gie  you  sic  a hearty  doze  o’t, 

W ad  dress  your  droddum ! 

I wad  na  been  surpris’d  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife’s  flainen  toy; 

Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On’s  wyliecoat ; 

But  Miss’s  fine  Lunardi!  fie, 

How  dare  ye  do’t ! 

O Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 

An’ set  your  beauties  a’  abead  ! 

Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

That  blastie’s  makin ! 

Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I dread, 

Are  notice  takin ! 

O wad  some  pow’r  the  giftie  gie  us, 

To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us  ! 

It  wad  frae  monie  a blunder  free  us 
And  foolish  notion : 

What  airs  in  dress  an’  gait  wad  lea’e  us, 

And  ev’n  Devotion ! 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 

I. 

Edina  ! Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow’rs, 


37 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Where  once  beneath  a monarch's  feet 
Sat  legislation’s  sov’reign  pow’rs  ! 

From  marking  wildly-scatter’d  flow’rs, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I stray’d, 

And  singing,  lone,  the  ling’ring  hours, 

I shelter  in  thy  honor’d  shade. 

II. 

Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide, 

As  busy  trade  his  labor  plies  ; 

There  architecture’s  noble  pride 
Bids  elegance  and  splendor  rise  ; 

Here  justice,  from  her  native  skies, 

High  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod ; 
There  learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes, 

Seeks  science  in  her  coy  abode. 

III. 

Thy  Sons,  Edina,  social,  kind, 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ; 

Their  views  enlarg’d,  their  lib’ral  mind, 
Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale ; 

Attentive  still  to  sorrow’s  wail, 

Or  modest  merit’s  silent  claim  ; 

And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 

And  never  envy  blot  their  name  ! 

IV. 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn  ! 

Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky, 

Sweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn, 

Dear  as  the  raptur’d  thrill  of  joy  ! 

Fair  B strikes  th’ adoring  eye, 

Heav’n’s  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine  ! 

I see  the  sire  of  love  on  high, 

And  own  his  works  indeed  divine  ! 

V. 

There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms, 

Thy  rough,  rude  fortress  gleams  afar  ; 
Like  some  bold  vet’ran,  gray  in  arms, 

And  mark’d  with  many  a seamy  scar. 

The  pond’rous  walls  and  massy  bar, 
Grim-rising  o’er  the  rugged  rock, 

Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war, 

And  oft  repell’d  the  invader’s  shock. 

VI. 

With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitying  tears, 
I view  that  noble,  stately  dome, 

Where  Scotia's  kings  of  other  years, 

Fam’d  heroes  ! had  their  royal  home  : 
Alas ! how  chang’d  the  times  to  come  ! 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust ! 

Their  hapless  race  wild-wand’ring  roam  ! 
Tho’  rigid  law  cries  out,  ’twas  just! 

VII. 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 
Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore, 

Thro’  hostile  ranks  and  ruin’d  gaps 
Old  Scotia's  bloody  lion  bore  : 

Ev’n  1,  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply  my  sires  have  left  their  shed, 

And  fac’d  grim  danger’s  loudest  roar, 
Bold-following  when  your  fathers  led  ! 

VIII. 

Edina  ! Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow’rs, 

Where  once  beneath  a monarch’s  feet 
Sat  legislation’s  sov’reign  pow’rs  ! 

From  marking  wildly-scatter’d  flow’rs, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I stray’d, 

And  singing,  lone,  the  ling’ring  hours, 

I shelter  in  thy  honor  d shade. 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  L APR  AIK, 

AN  OLD  SCOTTISH  BARD. 

APRIL  1st.,  1785. 

While  briers  and  woodbines  budding  green, 
An’  paitricks  scraichin  loud  at  e’en, 

An’  morning  poussie  whiddin  seen, 

Inspire  my  muse, 

This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien’, 

I pray  excuse. 

On  fasten-een  we  had  a rockin, 

To  ca’  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockin ; 

And  there  was  muckle  fun  an’  jokin, 

Ye  need  na  doubt; 

At  length  we  had  a hearty  yokin 
At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 

Aboon  them  a’  it  pleased  me  best, 

That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife  : 

It  thirl’d  the  heart-strings  thro’  the  breast, 

A’  to  the  life. 

I’ve  scarce  heard  ought  describes  sae  weel, 
What  gen’rous,  manly  bosoms  feel ; 

Thought  I,  “ Can  this  be  Pope,  or  Steele, 

Or  Beattie’s  wark!” 

They  tald  me  ’twas  an  odd  kind  chiel 
About  Muirkirk. 

It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear’t, 

And  sae  about  him  there  I spier’ t 
Then  a’  that  ken’t  him  round  declar’d 
He  had  ingine, 

That  nane  exceli’d  it,  few  cam  near’t, 

It  was  sae  fine. 

That  set  him  to  a pint  of  ale, 

An’  either  douce  or  merry  tale, 

Or  rhymes  an’  sangs  he’d  made  himsel, 

, Or  witty  catches, 

’Tween  Inverness  and  Tiviotdale, 

He  had  few  matches. 

Then  up  I gat,  an’  swoor  an’  aith, 

Tho’  I should  pawn  my  pleugh  and  graith, 

Or  die  a cadger  pownie’s  death, 

. . , At  some  dyke-back,, 

A pint  an’  gill  I’d  gie  them  baith 

To  hear  your  crack. 

But,  first  an’  foremost,  I should  tell, 

Amaist  as  soon  as  I could  spell, 

I to  the  crambo-jingle  fell, 

Tho’  rude  an’  rough, 

Yet  crooning  to  a body’s  sel, 

Does  well  enough. 

I am  nae  poet,  in  a sense, 

But  just  a rhymer,  like,  by  chance, 

An’  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence, 

Yet,  what  the  matter  ? 
Whene  er  my  muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic-folk  may  cock  their  nose, 

And  say,  “ How  can  you  e’er  propose, 

You  wha  ken  hardly'  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a sang  ? 

But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

Ye’re  maybe  wrang. 


38 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


What’s  a’  your  jargon  o’  your  schools, 

Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an’  stools; 

If  honest  nature  made  you  fools, 

What  sairs  your  grammars ; 
Ye’d  better  ta’en  up  spades  and  shools, 

Or  knappin  hammers. 

A set  o’  dull  conceited  hashes, 

Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes ! 

They  gang  in  stirks,  and  come  out  asses, 

Plain  truth  to  speak ; 

An’  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 
By  dint  o’  Greek ! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o’  Nature’s  fire, 

That’s  a’  the  learning  I desire ; 

Then  tho’  I drudge  thro’  dub  an’  mire 
At  pleugh  or  cart, 

My  muse,  tho’  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 

0 for  a spunk  o’  Allan's  glee, 

Or  Fergusson's,  the  bauld  and  slee, 

Or  bright  Lapraik's,  my  friend  to  be, 

If  I can  hit  it ! 

That  would  be  lear  eneugh  for  me, 

If  I could  get  it. 

Now,  Sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow, 

Tho’ real  friends,  I b’lieve,  are  few, 

Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fou, 

I’se  no  insist, 

But  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that’s  true, 

I’m  on  your  list. 

1 winna  blaw  about  mysel ; 

As  ill  I like  my  fauts  to  tell ; 

But  friends,  and  folk  that  wish  me  well, 

They  sometimes  roose  me, 
Tho’  I maun  own,  as  monie  still 

As  far  abuse  me. 

There’s  ae  weefaut  they  whyles  lay  to  me, 

I like  the  lasses — Gude  forgie  me  ! 

For  monie  a plack  they  wheedle  frae  me, 

At  dance  or  fair ; 

May  be  some  ither  thing  they  gie  me 

They  weel  can  spare. 

But  Mauchline  race,  or  Mauchline  fair, 

I should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there  ; 

We’se  gie  ae  night’s  discharge  to  care, 

If  we  forgather, 

An’  hae  a swap  o’  rhymin-ware 

Wi’  ane  anither. 

The  four-gill  chap,  we’se  gar  him  clatter, 

An’  kirsen  him  wi’  reekin  water; 

Syne  we’ll  sit  down  an’  tak  our  whitter, 

To  cheer  our  heart ; 

An’  faith  we’se  be  acquainted  better 
Before  we  part. 

Awa,  ye  selfish,  warly  race, 

Wha  think  that  havins,  sense,  an’  grace, 

Ev’n  love  an’  friendship,  should  give  place 
To  catch-the-plack  ; 

I dinna  like  to  see  your  face. 

Nor  hear  you  crack. 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms, 

Whose  heart  the  tide  of  kindness  warms, 

Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 

Each  aid  the  others’, 

Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms, 

My  friends,  my  brothers  ! 


But  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle, 

As  my  auld  pen’s  worn  to  the  grissle, 

Twa  lines  frae  you  wad  gar  me  fissle, 

Who  am,  most  fervent. 
While  I can  either  sing  or  whissle, 

Your  friend  and  servant. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

APRIL  21st,  1785. 

While  new-ca’d  kye  rout  at  the  stake, 
An’  pownies  reek  in  pleugh  or  braik, 

This  hour  on  e’enin’s  edge  I take, 

To  own  I’m  debtor 
To  honest-hearted,  auld  Lapraik, 

For  his  kind  letter. 

Forjesket  sair,  with  weary  legs, 

Rattlin’  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs, 

Or  dealing  thro’  amang  the  naigs 

Their  ten-hours’  bite. 
My  awkart  muse  sair  pleads  and  begs 
I would  na  write. 

The  tapetless  ramfeezl’d  hizzie, 

She’s  saft  at  best,  and  something  lazy, 

Quo’  she,  “Ye  ken,  we’ve  been  sae  busy, 
This  month  an’mair, 

That  trouth  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie, 
An’  something  sair.” 

Her  dowff  excuses  pat  me  mad  ; 

“ Conscience,”  says  1, 11  ye  thowless  jad  , 
I’ll  write,  an’  that  a hearty  blaud, 

This  vera  night ; 

So  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade, 

But  rhyme  it  right. 

“ Shall  bauld  Lapraik,  the  king  o’  hearts, 
Tho’  mankind  were  a pack  o’  cartes, 

Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts, 

In  terms  so  friendly, 
Yet  ye’ll  neglect  to  shaw  your  parts, 

An’  thank  him  kindly 

Sae  I gat  paper  in  a blink, 

An’  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  ink : 

Quoth  I,  “ Before  I sleep  a wink, 

I vow  I’ll  close  it ; 

An’  if  ye  winna  mak  it  clink, 

By  Jove  I’ll  prose  it ;” 

Sac  I’ve  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whether 
In  rhyme  or  prose,  or  baith  thegither, 

Or  some  hotch-potch  that’s  rightly  neither, 
Let  time  mak’  proof ; 
But  I shall  scribble  down  some  blether 
Just  clean  aff-loof. 

My  worthy  friend,  ne’er  grudge  an’  carp, 
Tho’  fortune  use  you  hard  an’  sharp ; 
Come,  kittle  up  your  moorland  harp 

Wi’  gleesome  touch: 
Ne’er  mind  how  fortune  waft  an’  warp  : 
She’s  but  a b-tch. 

She’s  gien  me  monie  a jirt  an’  fleg, 

Sin’  I could  striddle  owre  a rig ; 

But,  by  the  L — d,  tho’  I should  beg 
Wi’  lyart  pow, 

I’ll  laugh,  an’  sing,  an’  shake  my  leg, 

As  lang’s  I dow  I 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


39 


Now  comes  the  sax  an’  twentieth  simmer 
IV  seen  the  bud  upo’  the  timmer, 

Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer 

Frae  year  to  year ; 

But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimmer, 

1,  Bob,  am  here. 

Do  ye  envy  the  city  Gent, 

Behint  a kist  to  lie  and  sklent, 

Or  purse-proud,  big  wi’  cent,  per  cent. 

And  muckle  wame, 

In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 

A Bailie's  name  ? 

Or  is’t  the  paughty  feudal  Thane, 

Wi’  ruffl’d  sark  an’  glancin’  cane, 

Wha  thinks  himsel  na  sheep-shank  bane, 

But  lordly  stalks, 

While  caps  and  bonnets  aff  are  ta’en, 

As  by  he  walks  ? 

“0  Thou  wha  gies  us  each  guidgift! 

Gie  me  o’  wit  an’  sense  a lift, 

Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift, 

Thro’  Scotland  wide ; 

Wi’  cits  nor  lairds  I wadna  shift, 

In  a’  their  pride  1” 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 

“On  pain  o’  hell  be  rich  an’  great,” 

Damnation  would  then  be  our  fate, 

Beyond  remead ; 

But,  thanks  to  Heav’n!  that’s  no  the  gate 
We  learn  our  creed. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran, 

When  first  the  human  race  began, 

“The  scocial,  friendly,  honest  man, 

Whate’er  he  be, 

’Tis  he  fulfills  great  Nature's  flan, 

An’  none  but  he  !n 

O mandate  glorious  and  divine  ! 

The  ragged  followers  of  the  Nine, 

Poor,  thougtless  devils ! yet  may  shine 
In  glorious  light, 

While  sordid  sons  of  Mammon’s  line, 

Are  dark  as  night. 

Tho’  here  they  scrape,  an’ squeeze,  an’ growl, 
Their  worthless  nievefu  of  a soul 
May  in  some  future  carcase  howl, 

. The  forest’s  fright ; 

Or  in  some  day-detesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise, 

To  reach  their  native,  kindred  skies, 

And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  an’  joys, 

...  Jn  some  mild  sphere, 

Still  closer  knit  in  friendship’s  tie 

Each  passing  year. 


TO  W.  s *****  N, 

OCHILTREE. 

May,  1785. 

I GAT  your  letter,  winsome  Willie  ; 

Wi’  gratefu’  heart  I thank  you  brawlie; 

Tho’  I maun  say’t,  I wad  be  silly, 

An’  unco  vain, 

Should  I believe  my  coaxin’  billie, 

Your  flatterin  strain. 


But  I’se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it, 

I sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satire,  sidelin’s  sklented 

On  my  poor  Musie ; 

Tho’  in  sic  phrasin’  terms  ye’ve  penn’d  it, 

I scarce  excuse  ye. 

My  senses  wad  be  in  a creel 
Should  I but  dare  a hope  to  speel 
Wi’  Allan,  or  wi’  Gilbertjield, 

The  braes  o’  fame ; 

Or  Furgusson,  the  writer-chiel, 

A deathless  name. 

(O  Furgusson  ! thy  glorious  parts 
111  suited  law’s  dry,  musty  arts  ! 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts, 

Ye  Enbrugh  Gentry! 
The  tythe  o’  what  ye  waste  at  cartes, 

Wad  stow’d  his  pantry  !) 

Yet  when  a tale  comes  i’  my  head, 

Or  lasses  gie  my  heart  a screed, 

As  whyles  they’re  like  to  be  my  deed, 

(O  sad  disease !) 

I kittle  up  my  rustic  reed  ; 

It  gies  me  ease. 

Auld  Coila  now  may  fidge  fu’  fain, 

She’s  gotten  Poets  o’  her  ain, 

Chiels  wha  their  chanters  winna  hain, 

But  tune  their  lays, 

Till  echoes  a’  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise. 

Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  while, 

To  set  her  name  in  measur’d  style; 

She  lay  like  some  unkenn’d-of  isle 

Beside  New  Holland, 

Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil, 

Besouth  Magellan. 

Ramsay  an’  famous  Furgusson 
Gied  Forth  an’  Tay  a lift  aboon  ; 

Yarrow  an’  Tweed  to  monie  a tune, 

Owre  Scotland  rings, 
While  Irwin , Lugar,  Ayr,  an’  Boon, 

Nae  body  sings. 

Th’  Illissus,  Tiber,  Thames,  an’  Seine, 
Glide  sweet  in  monie  a tunefu’  line ! 

But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine, 

An  cock  your  crest, 
We’ll  gar  our  streams  and  burnies  shine 
Up  wi’  the  best. 

We’ll  sing  auld  Coila's  plains  an’  fells, 

Her  moors  red-brown  wi’  heather  bells, 

Her  banks  an’  braes,  her  dens  and  dells, 

Where  glorious  Wallace 
Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  Southron  billies. 

At  Wallace'  name,  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a spring-tide  flood  ! 

Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

By  Wallace'  side, 

Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat-shod, 

Or  glorious  dy’d. 

O,  Sweet  are  Coila's  haughs  an’  woods, 
When  lint-whites  chant  amang  the  buds, 

And  jinkin  hares,  in  armorous  whids, 

Their  loves  enjoy. 

While  thro’  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 
With  wailfu’  cry ! 


40 


B URNS’  POEMS. 


Ev’n  winter  bleak  has  charms  for  me, 
When  winds  rave  thro1  the  naked  tree ; 

Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 

Are  hoary  gray ; 

Or  blinding  drifts  wild-furious  flee, 

Dark’ning  the  day! 

O Nature  ! a1  thy  shows  an1  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms ! 
Whether  the  simmer  kindly  warms, 

Wi1  life  an’  light, 

Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

The  lang,  dark  night ! 

The  Muse,  na  poet  ever  fand  her, 

Till  by  himsel,  he  learn’d  to  wander 
Adown  some  trotting  burn’s  meander, 

An1  no  think  lang  ; 

0 sweet ! to  stray,  an1  pensive  ponder 
A heart-felt  sang ! 

The  warly  race  may  drudge  an’  drive, 
Hog-shouther,  jundie,  stretch,  an’  strive, 

Let  me  fair  Nature's  face  descrive, 

And  I,  wi’  pleasure, 
Shall  let  the  busy,  grumbling  hive 

Bum  owre  their  treasure. 

Fareweel,  “my  rhyme-composing  brither  ! 
We’ve  been  owre  lang  unkenn’d  to  ither : 
Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither, 

In  love  fraternal: 

May  Envy  wallop  in  a tether, 

Black  fiend,  infernal ! 

While  highlandmen  hate  tolls  and  taxes ; 
While  moorlan1  herds  like  guid  fat  braxies; 
While  terra  firma,  on  her  axis 

Diurnal  turns, 

Count  on  a friend,  in  faith  an’  practice, 

In  Robert  Burns. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

My  memory’s  no  worth  a preen ; 

I had  amaist  forgotten  clean, 

Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean 
By  this  New- Light  * 
’Bout  which  our  herds  sac  aft  hae  been 
Maist  like  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callans 
At  grammar , logic , an’  sic  talents, 

They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to  balance 
Or  rules  to  gie, 

But  spak  their  thoughts  in  plain  braid  lallans, 
Like  you  or  me. 

In  thae  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moon , 
Just  like  a sark,  or  pair  o’  shoon, 

Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roon, 

Gaed  past  their  viewing, 
An’  shortly  after  she  was  done, 

They  got  a new  one. 

This  past  for  certain,  undisputed  ; 

It  ne’er  cam  i’  their  heads  to  doubt  it, 

Till  chiels  gat  up  an’  wad  confute  it, 

An’  ca’d  it  wrang ; 

An’  muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  and  lang. 

Some  herds,  weel  learn’d  upo’  the  beuk, 
Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  thing  misteuk ; 

♦ See  note,  page  12. 


For ’twas  the  auld  moon  turn’d  a neuk, 

An’  out  o’  sight, 

An’ backlins-comin,  to  the  leuk, 

She  grew  mair  bright. 

This  was  deny’d,  it  was  affirm’d ; 

The  herds  an’  hissels  were  alarm’d  : 

The  rev’rend  gray-beards  rav'd  an’  storm’d, 
That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  inform’d 

Than  their  auld  daddies. 

Frae  less  to  mair  it  gaed  to  sticks  ; 

Frae  words  an’  aithe  to  clours  an’  nicks ; 

An’  monie  a fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi’  hearty  crunt ; 

An’  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  tricks, 

Were  hang’d  an’  burnt. 

This  game  was  play’d  in  monie  lands, 

An’  auld-light  caddies  bure  sic  hands, 

That  faith  the  youngsters  took  the  sands 
Wi’  nimble  shanks. 

The  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands, 

Sic  bluidy  pranks. 

But  new-light  herds  gat  sic  a cowe, 

Folk  thought  them  ruin’d,  stick-an’-stowe, 

Till  now  amaist  on  ev’ry  knowe, 

Ye’ll  find  ane  plac’d; 

An’  some,  their  new-light  fair  avow, 

Just  quite  barefac’d. 

Nae  doubt  the  auld-light  flocks  are  bleatin ; 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vex’d  an’  sweatin ; 
Mysel,  I’ve  even  seen  them  greetin 
Wi’  grinin  spite, 

To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  lie’d  on 

By  word  an’  write. 

But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  louns: 

Some  auld-light  herds  in  neebor  towns 
Are  mind’t,  in  things  thy  ca’  balloons, 

To  tak  a flight, 

An’  stay  a month  amang  the  moons 

An’  see  them  right. 

Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them  ; 

An’  when  the  auld  moon's  gaun  to  lea’e  them, 
The  hindmost  shaird,  they’ll  fetch  it  wi’  them 
Just  i’  their  pouch, 

An’  when  the  new-light  billies  see  them, 

I think  they’ll  crouch ! 

Sae,  ye  observe  that  a’  this  clatter 
Is  naething  but  a “moonshine  matter;” 

But  tho’  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter 
In  logic  tulzie, 

I hope,  we  bardies  ken  some  better 

Than  mind  sic  brulzie. 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  R******, 
ENCLOSING  SOME  POEMS. 

O rough,  rude,  ready-witted  R******, 

The  wale  o’  cocks  for  fun  an  drinkin  ! 

There’s  mony  godly  folks  are  thinkin, 

Your  dreams*  an’  tricks 
Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a-sinkin, 

Straught  to  auld  Nick’s. 

* A certain  humorous  dream  of  his  was  then  ma 
king  a noise  in  the  country-side. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


41 


Ye  hae  sae  monie  cracks  an1  cants, 

And  in  your  wicked  drunken  rants, 

Yemak  a devil  o’  the  saunts, 

An’  fill  them  fou  ; 

And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  an’  wants, 

Are  a’  seen  thro’. 

Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 

That  holy  robe,  O dinna  tear  it ! 

Spar  ’t  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it, 

The  lads  in  black  ! 

But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 
Rives  ’t  aff  their  back. 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye’re  skaithing, 
It’s  just  the  blue-gown  badge  an’  claithing 
O’  saunts;  tak  that,  ye  lea’e  them  naething 
To  ken  them  by, 

Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen 

Like  you  or  I. 

I’ve  sent  ye  home  some  rhyming  ware, 

A’  that  I bargain’d  for,  an’  mair ; 

Sae,  when  ye  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 

I will  expect 

Yon  sang*  ye’ll  sen’t  wi’  cannie  care, 

And  no  neglect. 

Tho’  faith,  sma’  heart  hae  I to  sing  ! 

My  muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing  ! 

I’ve  play’d  mysel  a bonnie  spring, 

An’  danc’d  my  fill ! 

I’d  better  gane  an’  sair’d  the  king, 

At  Bunker's  Hill. 

’T was  ae  night  lately  in  my  fun, 

I gaed  a roving  wi’  the  gun, 

An’  brought  a paitrick  to  the  gran, 

A bonnie  hen, 

And,  as  the  twilight  was  begun, 

Thought  nane  wad  ken. 

The  poor  wee  thing  was  little  hurt ; 

I straikit  it  a wee  for  sport, 

Ne’er  thinkin  they  wad  fash  me  for’t ; 

But,  deil-ma-care ! 
Somebody  tells  the  poacher-court 

The  hale  affair. 

Some  auld  us’d  hands  had  ta’en  a note, 

That  sic  a hen  had  got  a shot ; 

I was  suspected  for  the  plot ; 

I scorn’d  to  lie  ; 

So  gat  the  whissle  o’  my  groat, 

An’  pay’t  the  fee. 

But,  by  my  gun,  o’  guns  the  wale, 

An’  by  my  pouther  an’  my  hail, 

An’  by  my  hen,  an’  by  her  tail, 

I vow  an’  swear  ! 

The  game  shall  pay  o’er  m$or  an’  dale, 

For  this,  neist  year. 

As  soon’s  the  clockin-time  is  by, 

An’  the  wee  pouts  begin  to  cry, 

L — d,  I’se  hae  sportin  by  an’  by, 

F or  my  gowd  guinea : 
Tho’  I should  herd  the  buckskin  kye 
For’t  in  Virginia. 

Trowth,  they  had  muckle  for  to  blame  ! 
’Twas  neither  broken  wing  nor  limb, 

But  twa-three  draps  about  the  wame 

Scarce  thro’  the  feathers ; 
An’  baith  a yellow  George  to  claim, 

An’  thole  their  blethers ! 

* A song  he  had  promised  the  Author. 


It  pits  me  ay  as  mad’s  a hare  ; 

So  I can  rhyme  nor  write  nae  mair ; 

But  pennyworths  again  is  fair, 

When  time’s  expedient : 
Meanwhile  I am,  respected  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient. 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN,* 

A BALLAD. 

I. 

There  were  three  kings  into  the  east, 

Three  kings  both  great  and  high, 

An’  they  hae  sworn  a solemn  oath’ 

John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

II. 

They  took  a plow  and  plow’d  him  down, 
Put  clods  upon  his  head, 

And  they  hae  sworn  a solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

III. 

But  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on, 

And  showers  began  to  fall : 

John  Barleycorn  got  up  again, 

And  sore  surprised  them  all. 

IV. 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came, 
f And  he  grew  thick  and  strong, 

His  head  weel  arm’d  wi’  pointed  spears, , 
That  no  one  should  him  wrong.  ' 

V 

The  sober  autumn  enter’d  mild, 

When  he  grew  wan  and  pale  ; 

His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 
Show’d  he  began  to  fail. 

VI. 

His  color  sicken’d  more  and  more, 

He  faded  into  age ; 

And  then  his  enemies  began 
To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

VII. 

They’ve  ta’en  a weapon  long  and  sharp, 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee  ; 

Then  ty’d  him  fast  upon  a cart, 

Like  a rogue  for  forgerie, 

VIII. 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back, 

And  cudgel’d  him  full  sore  ; 

They  hung  him  up  before  the  storm, 

And  turn’d  him  o’er  and  o’er. 

IX. 

They  filled  up  a darksome  pit 
With  water  to  the  brim, 

They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  him  sink  or  swim. 

X. 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor, 

To  work  him  farther  wo, 

And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appear’d, 

They  toss’d  him  to  and  fro. 

*This  is  partly  composed  on  the  plan  of  an  old  song 
known  by  the  same  name. 


42 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


XI. 

They  wasted,  o’er  a scorching  flame, 

The  marrow  of  his  bones  ; 

But  a miller  us’d  him  worst  of  all, 

For  he  crush’d  him  between  two  stones. 

XII. 

And  they  hae  ta’en  his  very  heart’s  blood, 
And  drank  it  round  and  round ; 

And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank, 
Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

XIII. 

John  Barleycorn  was  a hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise, 

For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood, 

’Twill  make  your  courage  rise. 

XIV. 

’Twill  make  a man  forget  his  wo ; 

’Twill  heighten  all  his  joy  : 

’Twill  make  the  widow’s  heart  to  sing, 
Tho’  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 

XV. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 

Each  man  a glass  in  hand  ; 

And  may  his  great  posterity 
Ne’er  fail  in  old  Scotland  ! 


A FRAGMENT. 

Tune— “ Gillicrankie,” 

I. 

When  Guilford  good  our  pilot  stood, 
And  did  our  helm  thraw,  man, 

Ae  night,  at  tea,  began  a plea, 

Within  America , man  : 

Then  up  they  gat  the  maskin-pat, 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,  man  ; 

An’  did  nae  less,  in  full  congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 

II. 

Then  thro’  the  lakes  Montgomery  takes, 
I wat  he  was  na  slaw,  man ; 

Down  Lowrie's  burn  he  took  a turn, 

And  Carleton  did  ca’,  man  : 

But  yet,  what  reck,  he,  at  Quebec , 
Montgomery-like  did  fa’,  man, 

Wi’  sword  in  hand,  before  his  band, 
Amang  his  en’mies  a’,  man. 

III. 

Poor  Tammy  Gage , within  a cage 
Was  kept  at  Boston  ha' , man; 

Till  Willie  Howe  took  o’er  the  knowe 
F or  Philadelphia , man : 

Wi’  sword  an’  gun  he  thought  a sin 
Guid  Christian  blood  to  draw,  man ; 

But  at  New-  York,  wi’  knife  an’  fork, 
Sir-loin  he  hacked  sma’,  man. 

IV. 

Burgoyne  gaed  up,  like  spur  an’  whip, 
Till  Fraser  brave  did  fa’,  man; 

Then  lost  his  way,  ae  misty  day, 

In  Saratoga  shaw,  man. 

Cornwallis  fought  as  lang’s  he  dought, 
An’  did  the  buckskins  claw,  man  ; 


But  Clinto?i's  glaive  frae  rust  to  save, 

He  hung  it  to  the  wa’,  man. 

V. 

Then  Montague,  an’  Guilford  too, 

Began  to  fear  a fa’,  man  ; 

And  Sackville  doure,  wha  stood  the  stoure, 
The  German  chief  to  thraw,  man: 

For  Paddy  Burke , like  ony  Turk, 

Nae  mercy  had  at  a’,  man  ; 

And  Charlie  Fox  threw  by  the  box, 

An’  lows’d  his  tinkler  jaw,  man. 

VI. 

Then  Rockingham  took  up  the  game ; 

Till  death  aid  on  him  ca’,  man  ; 

When  Shelburne  meek  held  up  his  cheek, 
Conform  to  gospel  law,  man  ; 

Saint  Stephen’s  boys,  wi’  jarring  noise, 
They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man, 

For  North  an’  Fox  united  stocks, 

An’  bore  him  to  the  wa’,  man. 

VII. 

Then  clubs  an’  hearts  were  Charlie's  cartes. 
He  swept  the  stakes  awa’,  man, 

Till  the  diamond’s  ace,  of  Indian  race, 

Led  him  a sair  faux  pas,  man : 

The  Saxon  lads,  wi’  loud  placads, 

On  Chatham's  boy  did  ca",  man  ; 

An’  Scotland  drew  her  pipe  an’  blew', 

“ Up,  Willie,  waur  them  a’,  man!” 

VIII. 

Behind  the  throne  then  Grenville' s gone, 

A secret  word  or  twa,  man ; 

While  slee  Dundas  arous’d  the  class 
Be-north  the  Roman  wa’,  man: 

An’  Chatham's  wraith,  in  heavenly  graith, 
(Inspired  bardies  saw,  man) 

Wi’  kindling  eye3,  cry’d,  “ Willie,  rise  ! 
Would  I hae  fear’d  them  a’,  man  ?” 

IX. 

But,  word  an’  blow,  North,  Fox,  and  Co. 

GowfF’d  Willie  like  a ba,’  man, 

Till  Suthron  raise,  and  coost  their  claise 
Behind  him  in  a raw,  man  ; 

An’  Caledon  threw  by  the  drone, 

An’  did  her  whittle  draw,  man  ; 

An’  swoor  fu’  rude,  thro’  dirt  an’  blood, 

To  make  it  guid  in  law,  man. 

***** 


.SONG. 

Tune— “ Corn  rigs  are  bonnie.” 

I. 

It  was  upon  a Lammas  night, 

When  corn  rigs  are  bonnie. 
Beneath  the  moon’s  unclouded  light, 

I held  awa  to  Annie  : 

The  time  flew  by  wi’  tentless  heed, 
Till  ’tween  the  late  and  early ; 

Wi’  sma’  persuasion  she  agreed, 

To  see  me  thro’  the  barley. 

II. 

The  sky  wras  blue,  the  wand  w'as  still, 
The  moon  was  shinging  clearly  ; 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


43 


I set  me  down,  wi’  right  good  will, 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley  : 

I kenn’t  her  heart  was  a’  my  ain ; 

I lov'd  her  most  sincerely  ; 

I kiss'd  her  owre  and  awre  again 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley. 

III. 

I lock’d  her  in  my  fond  embrace  ; 

Her  heart  was  beating  rarely  : 

My  blessings  on  that  happy  place, 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley  ! 

But  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright, 
That  shone  that  hour  so  clearly, 
She  ay  shall  bless  that  happy  night, 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley. 

IV. 

I hae  been  blythe  wi’  comrades  dear ; 

I hae  been  merry  drinking  ; 

I hae  been  joyfu1  gathrin  gear; 

I hae  been  happy  thinkin  : 

But  a’  the  pleasures  e’er  I saw, 

Tho’  three  times  doubled  fairly, 
That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a’, 
Amang  the  rigs  o’  barley. 

CHORUS. 

Corn  rigs,  an'  barley  rigs, 

An ' corn  rigs  are  bonnie  : 

I’ll  ne'er  forget  that  happy  night, 
Amang  the  rigs  wi'  Annie. 


SONG. 

COMPOSED  IN  AUGUST. 

Tune — “I  had  a horse,  I had  nae  mair.” 

I. 

Now  westlin  winds,  and  slaught’ring  guns 
Bring  autumn’s  pleasant  weather; 

The  moorcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings, 
Amang  the  blooming  heather ; 

Now  waving  grain,  wide  o’er  the  plain, 
Delights  the  weary  farmer  ; [night, 

And  the  moon  shines  bright,  when  I rove  at 
To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 

II. 

The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells  ; 

The  plover  loves  the  mountains  ; 

The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells  ; 

The  soaring  hern  the  fountains  : 

Thro’  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves, 

The  path  of  man  to  shun  it ; 

The  hazel  bush  o’erhangs  the  thrush, 

The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet. 

• III. 

Thus  every  kind  their  pleasure  find, 

The  savage  and  the  tender  ; 

Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine; 

Some  solitary  wander : 

Avaunt ! away  ! the  cruel  sway, 

Tyrannic  man’s  dominion  ; 

The  sportsman’s  joy,  the  murd’ring  cry, 

The  flutt’ring,  gory  pinion  ! 

IV. 

But  Peggy  dear,  the  ev’ning’s  clear, 

Thick  flies  the  skimming  swallow ; 


The  sky  is  blue,  the  fields  in  view, 

All  fading,  green  and  yellow: 

Come  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way, 

And  view  the  charms  of  nature  ; 

The  rustling  corn,  the  fruited  thorn, 

And  every  happy  creature. 

V. 

We’ll  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  talk, 

Till  the  silent  moon  shine  clearly  ; 

I’ll  grasp  thy  waist,  and,  fondly  prest, 
Swear  how  I love  thee  dearly  : 

Not  vernal  show’rs  to  budding  flow’rs, 

Not  autumn  to  the  farmer, 

So  dear  can  be  as  thou  to  me, 

My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer  1 

— ® 84~«- 

SONG. 

Tune— “My  Nannie,  O.” 

I. 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar*  flows, 
’Mang  moors  and  mosses  many,  O! 

The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  clos’d, 

And  I’ll  awa  to  Nannie  O. 

II. 

The  westlin  wind  blaws  loud  an’  shrill ; 

The  night’s  baith  mirk  an’  rainy,  O ; 
But  I’ll  get  my  plaid,  an’  out  I’ll  steal, 

An’  owre  the  hills  to  Nannie,  O. 

III. 

My  Nannie’s  charming,  sweet,  an’  young  ; 

Nae  artfu’  wiles  to  win  ye,  O : 

May  ill  befa’  the  flattering  tongue 
That  wad  beguile  my  Nannie,  O. 

IV. 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true, 

As  spotless  as  she’s  bonnie,  O : 

The  op’ning  gowan,  wet  wi’  dew, 

Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  O. 

V. 

A country  lad  is  my  degree, 

An’  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  O ; 

But  what  care  I how  few  they  be, 

I’m  welcome  ay  to  Nannie,  O. 

VI. 

My  riches  a’s  my  penny-fee, 

An’  I maun  guide  it  cannie,  0 ; 

But  warl’s  gear  ne’er  troubles  me, 

My  thoughts  are  a’  my  Nannie,  O. 

VII. 

Our  auld  guidman  delights  to  view 
His  sheep  an’  kye  thrive  bonnie,  O ; 

But  I’m  as  blythe  that  hauds  his  pleugh, 

An’  has  nae  care  but  Nannie,  0. 

VIII. 

Come  weel,  come  wo,  I care  na  by, 

I’ll  tak  what  Heav’n  will  sen’  me,  0. 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I, 

But  live,  an’  love  my  Nannie,  0. 

* Originally,  Stinchar. 


44 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES, 
A FRAGMENT. 

CHORUS. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0 ! 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0 ! 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e’er  I spend , 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  0 ! 

I. 

There’s  nought  but  care  on  ev’ry  han’, 

In  ev’ry  hour  that  passes,  O ; 

What  signifies  the  life  o’  man, 

An’  ’twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow,  fyc. 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 

An’  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O ; 

An’  tho’  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 

Their  hearts  ne’er  can  enjoy  them,  O. 

Green  grow,  <pc. 

But  gie  me  a canny  hour  at  e’en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 

An’  warly  cares,  an’  warly  men, 

May  a’  gae  tapsalteerie,  O ! 

Green  grow,  &-c. 

IV. 

For  you  sae  douse,  ye  sneer  at  this, 

Ye’re  nought  but  senseless  asses,  0 : 

The  wisest  man  the  warP  e’er  saw, 

He  dearly  lov’d  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow,  (pc. 

V. 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O : 

Her  ’prentice  han’  she  try’d  on  man, 

An’  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow,  &-c. 
***** 


SONG. 

Tune — “Jockey’s  Gray  Breeks.” 

I. 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees  . 

Her  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues, 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 

All  freshly  steep’d  in  morning  dews. 

CHORUS.* 

And  maun  1 still  on  Menie t doat, 

And  hear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  e'e  ? 

For  it's  jet,  jet  black,  an'  it's  like  a hawk, 
An'  it  winna  let  a body  be  ! 

II. 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw, 

In  vain  to  me  the  vi’lets  spring ; 

In  vain  to  me,  in  glen  or  shaw, 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

And  maun  I still,  jpc. 

*This  chorus  is  part  of  a song  composed  by  a gen- 
tleman in  Edinburgh,  a particular  friend  of  the  au- 
thor’s. 

t Menie  is  the  common  abbreviation  of  Mariamie. 


III. 

The  merry  plowboy  cheers  his  team, 

Wi’  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks, 

But  life  to  me’s  a weary  dream, 

A dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

And  maun  I still,  fyc. 

IV. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 

Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 

And  every  thing  is  blest  but  I. 

And  maun  I still,  <pc. 

V. 

The  sheep -herd  steeks  his  faulding  slap, 

And  owre  the  moorlands  whistles  shill, 
Wi’  wild,  unequal,  wand’ ring  step 
I met  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

And  maun  1 still,  <£c. 

VI. 

And  when  the  lark,  ’tween  light  and  dark, 
Blythe  waukens  by  the  daisy’s  side, 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  fluttering  wings, 

A wo-worn  ghaist  I hameward  glide. 

And  maun  1 still,  (pc. 

VII. 

Come,  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl, 

And  raging  bend  the  naked  tree  ; 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul, 
When  nature  all  is  sad  like  me  ! 

CHORUS. 

And  maun  I still  on  Menie  doat. 

And  bear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  e'e  ? 

For  it's  jet,  jet  black,  an'  it's  like  a hawk, 

An'  it  winna  let  a body  be* 

■ -H»0® 

SONG. 

Tune — “ Roslin  Castle.” 

I. 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath’ring  fast, 

Loud  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast, 

Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 

I see  it  driving  o’er  the  plain  ; 

The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor, 

The  scatter’d  coveys  meet  secure, 

While  here  I wander,  prest  with  care, 

Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 

II. 

The  Autumn  mourns  her  rip’ningflsorn 
By  early  Winter’s  ravage  torn ; 

Across  her  placid,  azure  sky, 

She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly ; 

Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave, 

I think  upon  the  stormy  wave, 

Where  many  a danger  I must  dare, 

Far  from  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 

#We  cannot  presume  to  alter  any  of  the  poems  of 
our  bard,  and  more  especially  those  printed  under  his 
own  direction  : yet  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  cho- 
rus, which  is  not  of  his  own  composition,  should  be 
attached  to  these  fine  stanzas,  as  it  perpetually  inter- 
rupts the  train  of  sentiment  which  they  excite.  Ed. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


45 


III. 

’.Tis  not  the  surging  billow’s  roar, 

’Tis  not  that  fatal  deadly  shore  ; 

Tho’  death  in  every  shape  appear, 

The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear : 

But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 

That  heart  transpierc’d  with  many  a wound  ; 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I tear, 

To  leave  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 

IV. 

F arewell,  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales, 

Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales ; 

The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves, 
Pursuing  past,  unhappy  loves! 

Farewell,  my  friends ! farewell,  my  foes! 

My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those — 

I he  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare, 
Farewell,  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 


SONG. 

Tune— “ Guilderoy.” 

I. 

From  thee,  Eliza , I must  go, 

And  from  my  native  shore  ; 

The  cruel  fates  between  us  throw 
A boundless  ocean’s  roar  : 

But  boundless  oceans,  roaring  wide, 
Between  my  love  and  me, 

They  never,  never  can  divide 
My  heart  and  soul  from  thee. 

ir. 

Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear, 

The  maid  that  I adore ! 

A boding  voice  is  in  mine  ear, 

We  part  to  meet  no  more  ! 

But  the  last  throb  that  leaves  my  heart, 
While  death  stands  victor  by, 

That  throb,  Eliza,  is  thy  part, 

And  thine  the  latest  sigh  ! 


THE  FAREWELL 


BRETHREN  OF  ST.  JAMES’  LODGE, 
TARBOLTON. 

Tune— “ Good  night,  and  joy  be  wi’  you  a’:” 

I. 

Adieu  ! a heart- warm,  fond  adieu  ! 

Dear  brothers  of  the  mystic  tye  I 

Ye  favor’d,  ye  enlighten'd  few,' 
Companions  of  my  social  joy  ! 

Tho’  I to  foreign  lands  must  hie. 

vxr- ursuiVg  Fortune’s  slidd’ry  ba’, 
tu,  heart,  and  brimful  eye, 

1 II  mind  you  still,  tho*  far  awa*. 

ii. 

Oft  have  I met  your  social  band, 

And  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night ; 

Ult,  honor’d  with  supreme  command, 
Presided  o’er  the  sons  of  lisht  : 
y,lhat  hieroglyphic  bright, 

Which  none  but  craftsmen  ever  saw  ! 


Strong  mem’ry  on  my  heart  shall  write 
Those  happy  scenes  when  far  awa’. 

III. 

May  freedom,  harmony,  and  love, 

Unite  us  in  the  grand  design, 
Beneath  th’  omniscient  eye  above, 

^ The  glorious  Architect  divine  ! 

That  you  may  keep  th’  unerring  line , 
Still  rising  by  the  plummet's  law , 

Till  order  bright  completely  shine, 

Shall  be  my  pray’rwhen  far  awa’. 

IV. 

And  you,  farewell ! whose  merits  claim, 
Justly,  that  highest  badge  to  wear  ! 
Ileav  n bless  your  honor’d,  noble  name, 
i o Masonry  and  Scotia  dear ! 

A last  request  permit  me  here, 

When  yearly  ye  assemble  a’, 

One  rorind,  I ask  it  with  a tear, 

1o  him,  the  Bard  that's  far  awa'. 


SONG 

Tune— “Prepare,  my  dear  brethren,  to  the  Tavern 
Jet’s  fly.” 

I. 

No  churchman  am  I for  to  rail  and  to  write, 

No  statesman  nor  soldier  to  plot  or  to  fight, 

No  sly  man  of  business  contriving  a snare, 
lor  a big-belly’d  bottle’s  the  whole  of  mv  care. 

II.  * 

The  peer  I don’t  envy,  I give  him  his  bow ; 

1 scorn  not  the  peasant,  though  ever  so  low  ; 
But  a club  of  good  fellows,  like  those  that  are 
here, 

And  a bottle  like  this,  are  my  glory  and  care. 

III. 

Here  passes  the  squire  on  his  brother— his  horse ; 
1 here  centum  per  centum,  the  cit,  with  his 
purse  ; 

But  see  you  the  Croton,  how  it  waves  in  the  air 
there,  a big-belly’d  bottle  still  ceases  my  care! 

IV. 

The  wife  of  my  bosom,  alas ! she  did  die  • 

For  sweet  consolation  to  church  I did  fly;’ 

1 found  that  old  Solomon  proved  it  fair 
I hat  a big-belly’d  bottle’s  a cure  for  all  care. 

V. 

I once  was  persuaded  a venture  to  make  : 

A letter  inform’d  me  that  all  was  to  wreck  — 
But  the  pursy  old  landlord  just  waddled  up  stairs, 
W ith  a glorious  bottle  that  ended  my  cares. 

VI. 

‘‘Life’s  cares  they  are  comforts,”*— a maxim 
laid  down 

By  the  bard,  what  d’ye  call  him,  that  wore  the 
black  gown  ? 

And  faith  I agree  with  th’  old  prig  to  a hair : 
lor  a big-belly’d  bottle’s  a heav’n  of  care. 

A Stanza  added  in  a Mason  Eodge. 

Th®0  fill  UP  a bumper,  and  make  it  o’erfiow, 

And  honors  masonic  prepare  for  to  throw; 

* Young’s  Night  Thoughts. 


POEMS. 


46  BURNS’ 

May  every  true  brother  of  the  compass  and 
square 

Have  a big-belly’ d bottle  when  harass’d  with 
care. 


WRITTEN  IN 

FRIARS-CARSE  HERMITAGE, 
ON  NITH-SIDE. 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, — 

Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 

Be  thou  deckt  in  silken  stole, 

Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul. 

Life  is  but  a day  at  most, 

Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost; 

Hope  not  sunshine  ev’ry  hour, 

Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 

As  youth  and  love  with  sprightly  dance 
Beneath  thy  morning-star  advance, 

Pleasure  with  her  siren  air 
May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair  ; 

Let  prudence  bless  enjoyment’s  cup, 

Then  raptur’d  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high, 

Life’s  meridian  flaming  nigh, 

Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 

Life’s  proud  summit  wouldst  thou  scale  ? 
Check  thy  climbing  step,  elate, 

Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait. : 

Dangers,  eagle-pinion’d,  bold, 

Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold, 

While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  song, 
Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

As  the  shades  of  ev’ning  close, 

Beck’ning  thee  to  long  repose  ; 

As  life  itself  becomes  disease, 

Seek  thechimney-neuk  of  ease. 

There  ruminate  with  sober  thought, 

On  all  thou’st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrought, 
And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round, 
Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 

Say,  man’s  truth,  genuine  estimate, 

The  grand  criterion  of  his  fate, 

Is  not,  Art  thou  so  high  or  low  ? 

Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 

Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  ? 

Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 

Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind, 

As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find, 

The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  Hoav’n 
To  virtue  or  to  vice  is  giv’n. 

Say,  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise, 

There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies  ; 

That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways, 

Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile,  and  base. 

Thus  resign’d  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep  ; 

Sleep,  whence  thou  shalt  ne’er  awake, 
Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break. 

Till  future  life,  future  no  more, 

To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore, 

To  light  and  joy  unknown  before. 

Stranger,  go ! Heav’n  be  thy  guide ! 

Quod  the  beadsman  of  Nith-side. 


ODE, 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
MRS. OF . 

Dweller  in  yon  dungeon  dark, 

Hangman  of  creation  ! mark 
Who  in  widow-weeds  appears, 

Laden  with  unhonor’d  years, 

Noosing  with  care  a bursting  purse, 

Baited  with  many  a deadly  curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View  the  wither’d  beldam’s  face — 

Can  thy  keen  inspection  trace 

Aught  of  humanity’s  sweet,  melting  grace  ! 

Note  that  eye,  ’tis  rheum  o’erflows, 

Pity’s  flood  there  never  rose. 

See  those  hands,  ne’er  stretch’d  to  save, 

Hands  that  took — but  never  gave. 

Keeper  of  Mammon’s  iron  chest, 

Lo,  there  she  goes,  unpitied  and  unblest 
She  goes,  but  not  to  realms  of  everlasting  rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer  of  armies,  lift  thine  eyes, 

(Awhile  forbear,  ye  tort’ ring  fiends,) 

Seest  thou  whose  step  unwilling  hither  bends  ! 

No  fallen  angel,  hurl’d  from  upper  skies  ; 
’Tis  thy  trusty  quondam,  mate, 

Doom’d  to  share  thy  fiery  fate, 

She,  tardy  hell-ward  plies. 

EPODE. 

And  are  they  of  no  more  avail, 

Ten  thousand  glitt’ring  pounds  a year  ? 

In  other  worlds  can  Mammon  fail, 
Omnipotent  as  he  is  here? 

O,  bitter  mock’ry  of  the  pompous  bier, 

While  down  the  wretched  vital  part  is  driv'n  ! 
The  cave-lodg’d  beggar,  with  a conscience 
clear, 

Expires  in  rags  unknown,  and  goes  to  Heav’n, 


ELEGY 

ON 

CAPT.  MATTHEW  HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN  WHO  HELD  A PATENT  FOR  HIS  HON- 
ORS IMMEDIATELY  FROM  ALMIGHTY  GOD. 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run, 

For  Matthew’s  course  was  bright; 

His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 

A matchless,  Heav’nly  Light ! 

O death  ! thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody ! 

The  meikle  devil  wi’  a woodie 
Haurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie. 

O’er  hurcheon  hides, 

And  like  stock-fish  come  o’er  his  studdie 
Wi’  thy  auld  sides  ! 

He’s  gane,  he's  gane  ! he’s  frae  us  torn, 

The  ae  best  fellow  e’er  was  born  ! 

Thee,  Matthew,  Nature’s  sel  shall  mourn 
By  wood  and  wild, 

Where,  haply,  pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exil’d. 


BURNS’  POEMS 


47 


Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o’  the  starns, 

That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns, 

. Where  echo  slumbers, 

. Come  join,  ye  Nature’s  sturdiest  bairns, 
My  wailing  numbers. 

Mourn,  ilk  a grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 

Ye  haz’lly  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 

Ye  burnies,  whimplin  down  your  glens, 
Wi’  toddlin  din, 

Or  foaming  strang,  wi’  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin. 

Mourn.  little  harebells  o’er  the  lee  ; 

Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see  ; 

Ye  woodbines  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bow’rs  ; 

Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o’  flow’rs. 

At  dawn,  when  ev’ry  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a diamond  at  his  head, 

At  ev  n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed, 

I’  th’  rustling  gale, 

Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro’  the  glade, 

Come  join  my  wail. 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o’  the  wood ; 

Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud: 

Ye  curlews  calling  thro’  a clud ; 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 
And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood ; 

He’s  gane  forever ! 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals, 

Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels  ; 

Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi’  airy  wheels 
v Circling  the  lake ; 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake. 

Mourn  clam’ring  craiks  at  close  o’  day, 
Mang  fields  o flowr’ing  clover  gay  ; 

And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 
rn  ,,  ,v  r Frae  our  cauld  shore, 

1 ell  thae  far  warlds,  wha  lies  in  clay, 

Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivy  bow’r, 
au^  tree’  or  eldritch  tow’r, 

What  time  the  moon,  wi’  silent  glow’r, 
w . , , . Sets  up  her  horn, 

W ail  thro’  the  dreary  midnight  hour 

Till  waukrife  morn ! 

O rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains  ! 

Ult  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains: 

But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 
A , - But  tales  of  wo ; 

And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 
Maun  ever  flow. 

Mourn  spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a tear : 

Ifrou,  simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
rp,  _ Shoots  up  its  head, 

gay,  green,  flow’ry  tresses  shear, 

For  him  that’s  dead  ! 

Thou,  autumn,  wi’  thy  yellow  hair, 

In  gnef  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 

1 fiou,  winter,  hurling  thro’  the  air 
«Ir- , , , The  roaring  blast. 

Wide  o er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we’ve  lost ! 


Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light ! 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 

And  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies,  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn ! 

For  thro’  your  orbs  he’s  ta’en  his  flight, 

Ne’er  to  return. 

O Henderson  ; the  man  ! the  brother  ! 
i And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  forever! 

I And  hast  thou  crost  that  unknown  river, 

Life’s  dreary  bound ! 

Like  thee,  where  shall  I find  another, 

The  world  around! 

Go  to  your  sculptur’d  tombs,  ye  Great, 

In  a’  the  tinsel  trash  o’  state  ! 

But  by  the  honest  turf  I’ll  wait, 
i Thou  man  of  worth ! 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow’s  fate 

E’er  lay  in  earth. 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Stop,  passenger ! my  story’s  brief; 

And  truth  I shall  relate,  man  ; 

I tell  nae  common  tale  o’  grief, 

For  Matthew  was  a great  man. 

If  thou  uncommon  merit  hast, 

Yet  spurn’d  at  fortune’s  door,  man; 
A look  of  pity  hither  cast, 

For  Matthew  was  a poor  man. 

If  thou  a noble  sodger  art, 

That  passest  by  his  grave,  man, 

1 here  moulders  here  a gallant  heart, 
r or  Matthew  was  a brave  man. 

If  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  ways, 
Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man  : 
Here  lies  wha  weel  had  won  thy  praise, 
* or  Matthew  was  a bright  man. 

If  thou  at  friendship’s  sacred  ca’ 

Wad  life  itself  resign,  man  ; 

Thy  sympathetic  tear  maun  fa’, 

For  Matthew  was  a kind  man  ! 

If  thou  art  staunch,  without  a stain, 
Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man  ; 

I his  was  a kinsman  o’  thy  ain, 

For  Matthew  was  a true  man. 

If  thou  hast  wit,  and  fun,  and  fire, 

And  ne’er  guid  wine  did  fear,  man ; 

J his  was  thy  billie,  dam,  and  sire, 

For  Matthew  was  a queer  man. 

If  ony  whiggish  whingin  sot. 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man  : 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  lot, 

For  Matthew  was  a rare  man. 


LAMENT 

OF 

MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS, 
ON  THE  APPROACH  OF  SPRING. 

Now  nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 
Cn  every  blooming  tree, 


48 


BURNS’ 

And  spread  her  sheets  o’  daisies  white 
Out  o’er  the  grassy  lea : 

Now  Phcebus  cheers  the  crystal  streams, 
And  glads  the  azure  skies  ; 

But  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 
That  last  in  durance  lies. 

Now  lav’rocks  wake  the  merry  morn, 
Aloft  on  dewy  wing; 

The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bow’r, 

Makes  woodland  echoes  ring; 

The  mavis  mild,  wi’  many  a note. 

Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest : 

In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 

Wi’  care  nor  thrall  oppressed. 

Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  bank, 

The  primrose  down  the  brae  ; 

The  hawthorn’s  budding  in  the  glen, 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae  : 

The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotland 
May  rove  their  sweets  amang  ; 

But  I,  the  Queen  of  a’  Scotland, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  strang. 

I was  the  Queen  o’  bonnie  France, 

Where  happy  J hae  been  ; 

Fu’  lightly  raise  I in  the  morn, 

As  blythe  lay  down  at  e’en: 

And  I’m  the  sovereign  of  Scotland, 

And  mony  a traitor  there ; 

Yet  here  I lie  in  foreign  bands, 

And  never-ending  care. 

But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman, 

My  sister  and  my  fae, 

Grim  vengeance,  yet  shall  whet  a sword 
That  thro’  thy  soul  shall  gae : 

The  weeping  blood  in  woman’s  breast 
Was  never  known  to  thee  ; 

Nor  th’  balm  that  draps  on  wounds  of  wo 
Frae  woman’s  pitying  e’e. 

My  son  ! my  son ! may  kinder  stars 
Upon  thy  fortunes  shine  ; 

And  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy  reign, 
That  ne’er  wad  blink  on  mine  ! 

God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother’s  faes, 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee ! 

And  where  thou  meet’st  thy  mother’s  friend, 
Remember  him  for  me ! 

O ! soon,  to  me,  may  summer-suns 
Nae  mair  light  up  the  mom  ! 

Nae  mair,  to  me,  the  autumn  winds 
Wave  o’er  the  yellow  corn ! 

And  in  the  narrow  house  o’  death 
Let  winter  round  me  rave  ! 

And  the  next  flow’rs  that  deck  the  spring, 
Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave  ! 


TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  Esq., 

OF  FINTRA. 

Late  crippl’d  of  an  arm,  and  now'a  leg, 
About  to  beg  a pass  for  leave  to  beg  ; 

Dull,  listless,  teased,  dejected,  and  deprest, 
Nature  is  adverse  to  a cripple’s  rest:) 

Will  generous  Graham,  list  to  his  Poet’s  wail  ? 
(It  soothes  poor  misery,  heark’ning  to  her  tale,) 
And  hear  him  curse  the  light  he  first  survey’d, 
And  doubly  curse  the  luckless  rhyming  trade  ? 


POEMS. 

Thou,  Nature,  partial  Nature,  I arraign; 

Of  thy  caprice  maternal  I complain. 

The  lion  and  the  bull  thy  care  have  found, 

One  shakes  the  forests,  and  one  spurns  the 
ground : 

Thou  giv’st  the  ass  his  hide,  the  snail  his  shell, 
Th’  envenom’d  wasp,  victorious  guards  his  cell. 
Thy  minions,  kings,  defend,  control,  devour, 

In  all.  th’  omnipotence  of  rule  and  power. — 
Foxes  and  statesmen,  subtile  wiles  ensure  ; 

The  cit  and  polecat  stink,  and  are  secure. 

Toads  with  their  poison,  doctors  with  their  drug, 
The  priest  and  hedgehog  in  their  robes  are  snug, 
Ev’n  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts, 

Her  tongue  and  eyes,  her  dreaded  sjpear  and  darts. 

But  oh  ! thou  bitter  step-mother  and  hard, 

To  thy  poor,  fenceless,  naked,  child — the  Bard! 
A thing  unteachable  in  world’s  skill, 

And  half  an  idiot  too,  more  helpless  still. 

No  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  op’ning  dun; 

No  claws  to  dig.  his  hated  sight  to  shun  ; 

No  horns  but  those  by  luckless  Hymen  worn, 
And  those,  alas  ! not  Amalthea’s  horn  ; 

No  nerves  olfact’ry,  Mammon’s  trusty  cur, 

Clad  in  rich  dullness’  comfortable  fur, 

In  naked  feeling,  and  in  aching  pride, 

He  bears  th’  unbroken  blast  from  ev’ry  side : 
Yampyre  booksellers  drain  him  to  the  heart, 
And  scorpion  critics  careless  venom  dart. 

Critics — appall’d  I venture  on  the  name, 
Those  cut-throat  bandits  in  the  paths  of  fame, 
Bloody  dissectors,  worse  than  ten  Monroes; 

He  hacks  to  teach,  they  mangle  to  expose. 

His  heart  by  causeless,  wanton  malice  wrung, 
By  blockheads’  daring  into  madness  stung ; 

His  well-won  bays,  than  life  itself  more  dear, 
By  miscreants  torn,  who  ne’er  one  sprig  must 
wear  : 

Foil’d,  bleeding,  tortur’d  in  the  unequal  strife, 
The  hapless  poet  flounders  on  through  life. 

Till  fled  each  hope  that  once  his  bosom  fir’d, 
And  fled  each  muse  that  glorious  once  inspir’d, 
Low  sunk  in  squalid,  unprotected  age, 

Dead,  even  resentment,  for  his  injured  page, 

He  heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  ruthlqss  critic’s 
rage ! 

So,  by  some  hedge,  the  gen’rous  steed  deceas’d, 
For  half-starv’d  snarling  curs  a dainty  feast ; 

By  toil  and  famine  wore  to  skin  and  bone, 

Lies  senseless  of  each  tugging  bitch’s  son. 

O dullness  ! portion  of  the  truly  blest ! 

Calm  shelter’d  haven  of  eternal  rest ! 

Thy  sons  ne’er  madden  in  the  fierce  extremes 
Of  fortune’s  polar  frosts,  or  torrid  beams. 

If  mantling  high  she  fills  the  golden  cup, 

With  sober  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up  : 
Conscious  the  bounteous  meed  they  well  deserve, 
They  only  wonder  “ some  folks”  do  not  starve. 
The  grave,  sage  hern  thus  easy  picks  his  frog, 
And  thinks  the  mallard  a sad,  worthless  dog. 
When  disappointment  snaps  the  clue  of  hope, 
And  thro’  disastrous  night  they  darkling  grope, 
With  deaf  endurance  sluggishly  they  bpar, 

And  just  conclude  that fools  are  fortune’  scare.” 
So,  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest’s  shocks. 
Strong  on  the  sign-post  stands  the  stupid  ox. 

f 


49 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Not  so  the  idle  muses*  mad-cap  train, 

Not  such  the  workings  of  their  moon-struck 
brain ; 

In  equanimity  they  never  dwell, 

By  turns  in  soaring  heav’n,  or  vaulted  hell. 

I dread  thee,  fate,  relentless  and  severe, 
With  all  a poet’s,  husband’s,  father's  fear  ! 
Already  one  strong  hold  of  hope  is  lost, 
Glencairn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust ; 

(fled,  llke  the  sun  ec,iPs’d  as  noon  appears, 
And  left  us  darkling  in  a world  of  tears  •) 

O ! hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  pray’r  ! 
J?intra,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and  spare! 
a hrJ°:a-  *de  k's  hopes  and  wishes  crown  ; 
And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  go  down  ! 
May  bliss  domestic  smooth  his  private  path  • 
Crive  energy  to  life ; and  soothe  his  latest  breath, 
With  many  a filial  tear  circling  the  bed  of  death  » 


LAMENT 

FOR 


stream ; 


JAMES,  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 

The  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills, 

By  fits  the  sun’s  departing  beam 
Look’d  on  the  fading  yellow  woods 
That  wav’d  o’er  Lugar’s  winding 
Beneath  a craggy  steep,  a bard, 

Laden  with  years  and  meikle  pain, 

In  loud  lament  bewail’d  his  lord, 

Whom  death  had  all  untimely’ta’en. 

He  lean 'd  him  to  an  ancient  aik, 

Whose  trunk  was  mould’ ring  down  with 
years ; 

His  locks  were  bleached  white  wi’  time  ! 

His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi’  tears  ! 

And  as  he  touch’d  his  trembling  harp 
And  as  he  tun'd  his  doleful  sang 
l he  winds,  lamenting  thro’  their  caves, 

1 o echo  bore  the  notes  alang. 

“Ye  scatter'd  birds  that  faintly  sing 
1 he  reliques  of  the  vernal  quire  • 
ye  woods  that  shed  on  a’  the  winds 
1 he  honors  of  the  aged  year  * 

A few  short  months,  and  glad  and  gay 
Again  ye’ll  charm  the  ear  and  e’e  ! 

But  notcht  in  all  revolving  time 
Can  gladness  bring  again  to  me. 

I am  a bending  aged  tree, 

That  long  has  stood  the  wind  and  rain, 

But  now  has  come  a cruel  blast, 

And  my  last  hald  of  earth  is  gane  : 

Nae  leaf  o’  mine  shall  greet  the  spring. 

Nae  simmer  sun  exalt  my  bloom  ; 

But  I maun  lie  before  the  storm, 

And  ithers  plant  them  in  my  room. 

I’ve  seen  sae  mony  changefu’  years, 

Un  earth  1 am  a stranger  grown  • 

1 wander  in  ‘he  ways  of  men, 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknown  : 

Unheard,  unpitied,  unreliev’d, 

I bear  alane  my  lade  o’  care, 
r or  silent,  low,  on  beds  of  dust, 

Lie  a’  that  would  my  sorrows  share. 

“And  last  (the  sum  of  a’  my  greifs  !) 

My  noble,  master  lies  in  clay  ; 


The  flow’r  amang  our  barons  bold, 

His  country’s  pride,  his  country’s  stay  • 

In  weary  being  now  I pine, 

F or  a’  the  life  of  life  is  dead, 

And  hope  has  left  my  aged  ken, 

On  forward  wing  forever  fled. 

“Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harp ! 

The  voice  of  wo  and  wild  despair : 
Awake,  resound  thy  latest  lay, 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair  ! 

Iast>  bes‘.  only  friend, 

I hat  fillest  an  untimely  tomb, 

Accept  this  tribute  from  the  bard 

I hou  brought  from  fortune’s  mirkest  gloom. 

“ Poverty’s  low,  barren  vale. 

Ihmk  mists,  obscure,  involv’d  me  round: 
Though  oft  I turn  d the  wistful  eye 
Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found’: 

1 [ound’st  ,me;  hke  the  morning  sun 
That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air, 

I he  iriendless  bard  and  rustic  song. 

Became  alike  thy  fostering  care. 

“ OJwhyhas  worth  so  short  a date  ? 

While  villains  ripen  gray  with  time  ! 

Must  thou,  the  noble,  gen’rous,  great, 
wu  j'j  jd  manhood’s  hardy  prime  ! 

Why  did  I live  to  see  that  day  ? 

A day  to  me  so  full  of  wo  ! 

0 -had  I met  the  mortal  shaft 
Which  laid  my  benefactor  low  ! 

“ The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 
Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen ; 

1 he  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 

i hat  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been  : 

I he  mother  may  forget  the  child 

Vmi  Smi  es  ?ae  s,weet,y  °n  her  knee  ; 
a j remember  thee,  Glencairn, 

And  a that  thou  hast  done  for  me  !” 


LINES 


SENT  TO  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD, 

OF  WHITEFOORD,  BART. 

WITH  THE  FOLLOWING  POEM. 

Thou,  who  thy  honor  as  thy  God  rever’st, 
Who,  save  thy  mind's  reproach,  nought  earthly 
iear  st, 

To  thee  this  votive  offering  I impart, 

I he  tearful  tribute  of  a broken  heart. 

The  friend  thou  valued’st,  I the  patron  lov’d: 
His  wonh,  his  honor,  all  the  wofld  approv’d. 
We  11  mourn  till  we  too  go  as  lie  has  gone, 

And  tread  he  dreary  path  to  that  dark  world 
unknown. 


TAM  O’SHANTER. 

A TALE. 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  Buke. 

Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street 
And  drouthy  neebors,  neebors  meet,  ’ 


50 


BURNS*  POEMS. 


As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 

An’  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate  ; 

While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 

An1  gettin  fou  and  unco  happy, 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 

The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles, 

That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 

Whare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 

As  he  frae  Ayr,  ae  night  did  canter, 

(Auld  Ayr  whom  ne’er  a town  surpasses, 

For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses.) 

O Tam  ! had’st  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 

As  ta’en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a skellum, 

A blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober, 

That  ilka  melder,  wi’  the  miller, 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 

That  ev’ry  naig  was  ca’d  a shoe  on, 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on, 

That  at  the  L — d’s  house,  ev’n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi’  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 

She  prophesy’d  that  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown’d  in  Doon , 
Or  catch’d  wi’  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Altoway' $ auld  haunted  kirk. 

y Ah,  gentle  dames ! it  gars  me  greet, 

To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 

How  mony  lengthen’d  sage  advices, 

The  husband  frae  the  wile  despises  ! 

But  to  our  tale : Ae  market  night, 

Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 

Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

Wi’  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely  ; 

And  at  his  eldow.,  sou  ter  Johnny , 

His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony ; 

Tam  lo’ed  him  like  a vera  brither ; 

They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 

The  night  drave  on  wi’  sangs  an’  clatter ; 

And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better : 

The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious  ; 

Wi’  favors,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious : 

The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 

The  landlord’s  laugh  was  ready  chorus  : 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 

Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a man  sae  happy, 

E’en  drown’d  himself  amang  the  nappy  ; 

As  bees  flee  hame  wi’  lades  o’  treasure, 

The  minutes  wing’d  their  way  wi’  pleasure : 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tarn  was  glorious, 
O’er  a’  the  ills  o’  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 

You  seize  the  flow’r,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 

Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, 

A moment  white — then  melts  forever  ; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow’s  lovely  from 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide  ; 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride  ; 

That  hour,  o’  night’s  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ; 

And  sic  a night  he  taks  the  road  in, 

As  ne’er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 


The  wind  blew  as  ’twad  blown  its  last; 
The  rattling  show’rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow’d ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellow’d  : 
That  night,  a child  might  understand, 

The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg , 

A better  never  lifted  leg, 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro’  dub  and  mire, 

Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire  ; 

Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet : 
Whiles  crooning  o’er. some  auld  Scots  sonnet 
Whiles  glow’ring  round  wi’  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares  ; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 

Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. — 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 

Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor’d; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 

Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak’s  neck-bane  ; 
And  thro’  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn; 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder’d  bairn  ; 

And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well. 

Where  Mungo's  mither  hang’d  hersel. — 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 

The  doubling  storm  roars  thro’  the  woods : 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole  ; 

Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 

When  glimmering  thro’  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem’d  in  a bleeze  ; 

Thro’  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing ; 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. — 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn ! 

Wi’  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi’  usquabae  we’ll  face  the  devil ! — 

The  swats  sae  ream’d  in  Tammie's  noddle. 
Fair  play,  he  car’d  na  deils  a boddle, 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish’d, 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish’d, 

She  ventur’d  forward  on  the  light ; 

And,  vow  ! Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a dance  ; 

Nae  cotillon  brent  new  frae  France , 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o’  beast ; 

A towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge : 

He  screw’d  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a’  did  dirl, — 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 

That  shaw’d  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  slight, 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a light, — 

By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A murderer’s  banes  in  gibbet  aims; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee:  unchristen’d  bairns  ; 

A thief,  new  cutted  frae  a rape, 

Wi’  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape  ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi’  bluid  red-rusted  ; 

Five  scimitars,  wi  murder  crusted  ; 

A garter,  which  a babe  had  strangled ; 

A knife,  a father’s  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  o’  life  bereft, 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  licft ; 

Wi’  mair  o’  horrible  and  awfu\ 

Which  ev’n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu’. 


51 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


As  Tammie  glowr’d,  amaz’d,  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 

The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew  ; 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 

They  reel'd,  they  set,  they  cross’d,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carhn  swat  and  reekit, 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 

And  lmket  at  it  in  her  sark  1 

Now  Tam,  O Tam  ! had  they  been  queans 
A’  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teens; 

Their  sarks,  instead  o’  creeshie  flannen, 

Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen ! 

Thir  breeks  o’  mine,  my  only  pair, 

That  ance  were  plush,  o’  guid  blue  hair, 

I wad  hae  gi'en  then  aff  my  hurdies, 

For  ae  blink  o’  the  bonnie  burdies ! 

But  wither’d  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a foal, 

Lowping  an’  flinging  on  a crummock, 

I wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn’d  what  was  what  fu’  brawlie, 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 

That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Garrick  shore  ! 

For  mony  a beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perish'd  mony  a bonnie  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear.) 

Here  cutty-sark,  o’  Paisley  harn, 

That  while  a lassie  she  had  worn, 

In  longitude  tho’  sorely  scanty, 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. — 

Ah  ! little  kenn’d  thy  reverend  grannie, 

That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie , 

Wi’  twa  pund  Scots  (’twas  a’  her  riches,) 

H ad  ever  grac'd  a dance  of  witches  ! 

But  here  my  muse  her  wings  maun  cour ; 

Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow’r  ; 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 

(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  strang) 

And  how  Toot  stood,  like  ane  bewitch’d, 

And  thought  his  very  e'en  enrich’d ; 

Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg’d  fu’  fain, 

And  hotch'd  and  hiew  wi’  might  and  main: 

Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 

Tam  tint  his  reason  a’  thegither, 

And  roars  out,  11  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  !” 

And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark  : 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 

When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bee3  bizz  out  wi’  angry  fyke, 

When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 

As  open  pussies  mortal  foes, 

When,  pop  ! she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

When,  “ Catch  the  thief;”  resounds  aloud; 

So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi’  mony  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam!  ah,  Tam!  thou’ll  get  thy  fairin ! 

In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a herrin ! 

In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin  ! 

Kate  goon  will  b©a  wofu"  woman  ! 

Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 

And  win  the  key-stane*  of  the  brig  ! 

•It  is  a well-known  fact  that  witches,  or  any  evil 
spirits,  have  no  power  to  follow  a poor  wight  any 
farther  than  the  middle  of  the  next  running  stream. 

It  may  be  proper  likew  ise  to  mention  to  the  benight- 
ed traveler,  that  when  he  falls  in  with  bogles,  what- 
ever danger  may  be  in  his  going  forward,  there  is 
much  more  hazard  in  turning  back. 


There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 

A running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a tale  she  had  to  shake  ! 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 

Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 

And  flew  at  Tam  wi’  furious  ettle ; 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle — 

Ae  spring  brought  off Tier  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 

The  carlin  claught.  her  by  the  rump, 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o’  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man  and  mother’s  son  tak  heed : 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin’d, 

Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 

Think  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o’er  dear, 
Remember  Tam  o'  S/tanter's  mare. 


ON  SEEING  A WOUNDED  HARE 
1IMPBY  ME, 

WHICH  A FELLOW  HAD  JUST  SHOT  AT. 

Shuman  man  ! curse  on  thy  barb’rous  art, 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye  ; 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart  1 

Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field, 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains: 

N o more  the  thickening  brakes  and  verdant 
plains, 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted 
rest, 

No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed  ! 
The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  thy  head, 
The  cold  earth.with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest. 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 

111  miss  thee  sporting  o’er  the  dewy  lawn, 
And  curse  the  ruffian’s  aim,  and  mourn  thy 
hapless  fate. 


— ~*+9  9 9+**“— 

ADDRESS 

TO  THE  SHADE  OF  THOMSON, 

ON  CROWNING  HIS  BUST  AT  EDNAM,  ROXBUGH* 
SHIRE,  WITH  BAYS. 

While  virgin  Spring,  by  Eden’s  flood, 
Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green, 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  mood, 

Or  tunes  Eolian  strains  between : 

While  Summer  with  a matron  grace 
Retreats  to  Dryburgh’s  cooling  shade, 

Yet  oft,  delighted,  stops  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade : 

While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind, 

By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head, 

And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind, 

Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed  : 

While  maniac  Winter  rages  o’er 
The  hills  whence  classic  Yarrow  flows, 


52 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Rousing  the  turbid  torrent’s  roar, 

Or  sweeping,  wild,  a waste  of  snows ; 

So  long,  sweet  Poet  of  the  year, 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well  hast  won; 
While  Scotia,  with  exulting  tear, 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son. 


EPITAPHS,  ETC. 


ON  A CELEBRATED  RULING 
ELDER. 

Here  souter****  in  death  does  sleep ; 

To  h-Il,  if  he’s  gane  thither, 

Satan,  gie  him  thy  gear  to  keep, 

He’ll  haud  it  weel  thegither. 


ON  A NOISY  POLEMIC. 

Below  thir  stanes  lie  Jamie’s  banes: 
O death,  it’s  my  opinion, 

Thou  ne’er  took  such  a bleth’rin  b-tch 
Into  thy  dark  dominion  ! 


ON  WEE  JOHNIE. 
Hie  jacet  wee  Johnie. 

Whoe’er  thou  art,  O reader,  know, 
That  death  has  murder’d  Johnie! 

An’  here  his  body  lies  fu’  low 

For  saul,  he  ne’er  had  ony. 


FOR  THE  AUTHOR’S  FATHER. 

O ye,  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains, 
Draw  near  with  pious  rev’rence  and  attend ! 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband’s  dear  remains, 
The  tender  father,  and  the  gen’rous  friend. 
The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  wo ; 
The  dauntless  heart  that  fear’d  no  human 
pride : i 

The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a foe ; 

“For  ev’n  his  failings  lean’d  to  virtue’s 
side.”  * 


FOR  R . A . Esq. 

Know  thou,  O stranger  to  the  fame 
Of  this  much  lov’d,  much  honor’d  name; 
(For  none  that  knew  him  need  be  told) 

A warmer  heart  death  ne'er  made  cold. 


FOR  G.  H.  Esq. 

The  poor  man  weeps — here  G n 

Whom  canting  wretches  blam’d  : 
But  with  such  as  he,  where’er  he  be, 
May  I be  sav'd  or  damn'd ! 

* Goldsmith 


A BARD’S  EPITAPH. 

Is  there  a whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 
Let  him  draw  near  ; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  drap  a tear. 

Is  there  a bard  of  rustic  song, 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 
That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

O,  pass  not  by ! 

But  with  a frater-feeling  strong, 

Here,  heave  a sigh, 

Is  there  a man,  whose  judgment  clear, 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 

Yet  runs,  himself,  life’s  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  wave  ; 

Here  pause — and,  thro’  the  starting  tear. 
Survey  this  grave. 

This  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  know. 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame, 

But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stained  his  name  ! 

Reader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy’s  flights  beyond  the  pole, 

Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit ; 

Know,  prudent,  cautious,  self-control 
Is  wisdom’s  root. 


ON  THE  LATE 

CAPT.  GROSE’S  PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH  SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING  THE  ANTIQUITIES  OF  THAT  KINGDOM. 

Hear,  Land  o’  Cakes,  and  brither  Scots, 
Frae  Maidenkirk  to  Johnie  Groat’s; 

If  there’s  a hole  in  a’  your  coats, 

I rede  you  tent  it : 

A chield’s  amang  you  taking  notes, 

And,  faith,  he’ll  prent  it. 

If  in  your  bounds  ye  chance  to  light 
Upon  a fine,  fat,  fodgle  wight, 

O’  stature  short,  but  genius  bright, 

That’s  he,  mark  weel — 
And  vow  ! he  has  an  unco  slight 

O’  cauk  and  keel. 

By  some  auld,  houlet-haunted  biggin,* 

Or  kirk  deserted  by  its  riggin, 

It’s  ten  to  ane  ye’ll  find  him  snug  in 

Some  eldritch  part, 

Wi’  deils,  they  say,  L — d save’s ! colleaguin 
At  some  black  art. — 

Ilk  ghaist  that  haunts  auld  ha’  or  chamer, 

Ye  gipsy-gang  that  deal  in  glamor, 

And  you  deep  read  in  hell’s  black  grammar. 
Warlocks  and  witches ; 
Ye’ll  quake  at  his  conjuring  hammer, 

Ye  midnight  b — — es. 

♦Vide  his  Antiquities  of  Scotland. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


53 


It’s  tauld  he  was  a sodger  bred, 

And  ane  wad  rather  fa’n  than  fled  ; 

But  now  he’s  quat  the  spurtle  blade, 

And  dog-skin  wallet, 
And  ta’en  the — Antiquarian  trade , 

I think  they  call  it. 

He  has  a fouth  o’  auld  nick-nackets : 
Rusty  airn  caps  and  jinglin  jackets,* 

Wad  haud  the  Lothians  three  in  tackets, 

A towmont  guid ; 

And  parritch-pats,  and  auld  saut-backets, 
Before  the  Flood. 

Of  Eve’s  first  fire  he  has  a cinder ; 

Auld  Tubal  Cain’s  fire-shool  and  fender; 
That  which  distinguished  the  gender 
O’  Balaam’s  ass; 

A broom-stick  o’  the  witch  of  Endor, 

Weel  shod  wi’  brass. 

Forbye,  he’ll  snape  you  aiF,  fu’  gleg, 

The  cut  of  Adam’s  philibeg  ; 

The  knife  that  nicket  Abel’s  craig 

He’ll  prove  you  fully, 

It  was  a faulding  jocteleg, 

Or  lang-kail  gullie. — 

But  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee, 

For  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  he, 

Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 

Guid  fellows  wi’  him ; 
And  port,  O port  ! shine  thou  a wee, 

And  then  ye’ll  see  him  ! 

Now,  by  the  pow’rs  o’  verse  and  prose ! 
Thou  art  a dainty  chield,  O Grose ! — 
Whae’er  o’  thee  shall  ill  suppose, 

They  sair  misca’  thee ; 

I d take  the  rascal  by  the  nose, 

Wad  say,  Shamefa’  thee. 


TO  MISS  CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY  YOUNG  LADY. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A BOOK,  PRE- 
SENTED TO  HER  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

Beauteous  rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 

Blooming  on  thy  early  May, 

Never  may’st  thou,  lovely  flow’r, 

Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  show’r ! 

Never  Boreas’  hoary  path, 

Never  Eurus’  pois’nous  breath, 

Never  baleful  stellar  lights, 

Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights  ! 

Never,  never  reptile  thief 
Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf! 

Nor  even  Sol  too  fiercly  view 
Thy  bosom,  blushing  still  with  dew  ! 

May’st  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gem, 

Richly  deck  thy  native  stem  ; 

Till  some  ev’mng,  sober,  calm, 

Dropping  dews,  and  breathing  balm, 

While  all  around  the  woodland  rings, 

And  ev’ry  bird  thy  requiem  sings  ; 

Thou,  amid  the  dirgeful  sound, 

Shed  the  dying  honors  round, 

And  resign  to  parent  earth 

The  loveliest  form  she  e’er  gave  birth, 

t Vide  his  Treatise  on  Ancient  Armor  and  Wea- 


SONG. 

Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire, 
And  waste  my  soul  with  care  ; 
But  ah!  how  bootless  to  admire, 
When  fated  to  despair  ! 

Yet  in  thy  presence,  lovely  Fair, 
To  hope  may  be  forgiv’n  ; 

For  sure  ’twere  impious  to  despair, 
So  much  in  sight  of  Heav’n. 


ON  READING,  IN  A NEWSPAPER, 

THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  M’LEOD,  Esq. 

BROTHER  TO  A YOUNG  LADY,  A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR’S. 

Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page, 

And  rueful  thy  alarms  : 

Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love 
From  Isabella’s  arms. 

Sweetly  deckt  with  pearly  dew 
The  morning  rose  may  blow  ; 

But  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 
May  lay  its  beauties  low. 

Fair  on  Isabella’s  morn 
The  sun  propitious  smil’d  ; 

But,  long  ere  noon,  succeeding  clouds 
Succeeding  hopes  beguil’d. 

Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  chords 
That  nature  finest  strung  ; 

So  Isabella’s  heart  was  form’d, 

And  so  that  heart  was  wrung. 

Dread  Omnipotence,  alone, 

Can  heal  the  wound  he  gave  ; 

Can  point  the  brimful  grieLworn  eyes 
To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

Virtue’s  blossoms  there  shall  blow, 

And  fear  no  withering  blast ; 

There  Isabella’s  spotless  worth 
Shall  happy  be  at  last. 


THE 

HUMBLE  PETITION 

o F 

BRUAR  WATER* 

TO 

THE  NOBLE  DUKE  OF  ATHOLE. 

My  Lord,  I know,  your  noble  ear 
Wo  ne’er  assails  in  vain ; 

Embolden’d  thus,  I beg  you’ll  hear 
Your  humble  Slave  complain, 

How  saucy  Phoebus’  scorching  beams, 

In  flaming  summer-pride, 

Dry-withering,  waste  my  foamy  streams, 
And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 

* Bruar  Falls  in  Athole  are  exceedingly  pictur- 
esque and  beautiful;  but  their  effect  is  much  impaired 
by  the  want  of  trees  and  shrubs. 


54  BURNS’ 

The  lightly -jumping  glowrin  trouts, 

That  thro’  my  waters  play, 

If,  in  their  random,  wanton  spouts, 

They  near  the  margin  stray  ; 

If,  hapless  chance  ! they  linger  lang, 

I’m  scorching  up  to  shallow, 

They’re  left  the  whitening  stanes  amang, 

In  gasping  death  to  wallow. 

Last  day  I grat  wi’  spite  and  teen, 

As  Poet  B****  came  by, 

That  to  a Bard  I should  be  seen 
Wi’  half  my  channel  dry  : 

A panegyric  rhyme,  I ween, 

Even  as  I was  he  shor’d  me ; 

But  had  I in  my  glory  been, 

He,  kneeling,  wad  ador’d  me. 

Here,  foaming  down  the  shelvy  rocks, 

In  twisting  strength  I rin  ; 

There,  high  my  boiling  torrent  smokes, 
Wild-roaring  o’er  a linn  : 

Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well, 

As  nature  gave  them  me, 

I am,  altho’  1 say’t  mysel, 

Worth  gaun  a mile  to  see. 

Would  then  my  noble  master  please 
To  grant  my  highest  wishes, 

He’ll  shade  my  banks  wi’  tow’ring  trees 
And  bonnie  spreading  bushes  ; 

Delighted  doubly  then,  my  Lord, 

You’ll  wander  on  my  banks, 

And  listen  mony  a grateful  bird 
Return  you  tuneful  thanks. 

The  sober  laverock,  warbling  wild, 

Shall  to  the  skies  aspire  ; 

The  gowdspink,  music’s  gayest  child, 

Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir : 

The  blackbird  strong,  the  lintwhite  clear, 
The  mavis  mild  and  mellow  ; 

The  robin  pensive  autumn  cheer. 

In  all  her  locks  of  yellow. 

This  too,  a covert  shall  ensure, 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm  ; 

And  coward  maukin  sleep  secure, 

Low  in  her  grassy  form  : 

Here  shall  the  shepherd  make  his  seat 
To  weave  his  crown  of  flow’rs  ; 

Or  find  a sheltering  safe  retreat, 

From  prone  descending  show’rs. 

And  here,  by  sweet  endearing  stealth, 

Shall  meet  the  loving  pair, 

Despising  worlds,  with  all  their  wealth, 

As  empty,  idle  care  : 

The  flow’rs  shall  vie  in  all  their  charms 
The  hour  of  heav’n  to  grace, 

And  birks  extend  their  fragrant  arms, 

To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 

Here,  haply  too,  at  vernal  dawn, 

Some  musing  bard  may  stray, 

And  eye  the  smoking,  dewy  lawn, 

And  misty  mountain,  gray  ; 

Or,  by  the  reaper’s  nightly  beam, 
Mild-chequering  thro’  the  trees, 

Rave  to  my  darkly  dashing  stream, 
Hoarse-swelling  on  the  breeze. 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool, 

My  lowly  banks  o’erspread, 

And  view,  deep-pending  in  the  pool, 

Their  shadows'  watVy  bed ! 

Let  fragrant  birks  in  woodbines  drest, 

My  craggy  cliffs  adorn ; 


POEMS. 

And,  for  the  little  songster’s  nest. 
The  close  embow’ring  thorn. 

So  may  old  Scotia’s  darling  hope, 
Your  little  angel  band, 

Spring,  like  their  fathers,  up  to  prop 
Their  honor’d  native  land  ! 

So  may  thro’  Albion’s  farthest  ken, 
The  social  flowing  glasses, 

To  grace  be — “Athole’s  honest  men. 
And  Athole’s  bonnie  lasses  I” 


ON  SOARING  SOME  WATER-FOWL 
IN  LOOK-TURIT, 

A WILD  SCENE  AMONG  THE  HILLS  07 
OUGHTERTYRE. 

Why,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake, 

For  me  your  wat’ry  haunt  forsake  ? 

Tell  me,  fellow-creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 

Why  disturb  your  social  joys, 

Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties  ? — 

Common  friend  to  you  and  me, 

Nature’s  gifts  to  all  are  free : 

Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave. 

Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave  ; 

Or  beneath  the  sheltering  rock. 

Bide  the  surging  billow’s  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race, 
Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I trace ; 

Man,  your  proud  usurping  foe. 

Would  be  lord  of  all  below : 

Plumes  himself  in  Freedom’s  pride, 
Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 

The  eagle,  from  the  cliffy  brow. 
Marking  you  his  prey  below, 

In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells, 

Strong  necessity  compels. 

But  man,  to  whom  alone  is  giv'n 
A ray  direct  from  pitying  Heav’n, 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane — 

And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  slain. 

In  these  savage,  liquid  plains, 

Only  known  to  wand’ring  swains, 
Where  the  mossy  riv’let  strays, 

F ar  from  human  haunts  and  ways ; 

All  on  Nature  you  depend, 

And  life’s  poor  season  peaceful  spend. 

Or,  if  man’s  superior  might, 

Dare  invade  your  native  right, 

On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 

Man  with  all  his  pow’rs  you  scorn  ; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings, 

Other  lakes  and  others  springs ; 

And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave, 

Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


WRITTEN  WITH  A PENCIL 
OVER  THE  CHIMNEY-PIECE, 

IN  THE  PARLOR  OF  THE  INN  AT  KENMORE,  TAY- 
MOUTH. 

Admiring  Nature,  in  her  wildest  grace, 

These  northern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I trace  ; 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


5£> 


O’er  many  a winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 
Th’  abodes  of  covey’d  grouse  and  timid  sheep, 
My  savage  journey,  curious,  I pursue, 

Till  fam'd  Breadalbane  opens  to  my  view. 

The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides, 
The  woods,  wild  scatter’d,  clothe  their  ample 
sides ; [hills, 

Th’  outstretching  lake,  embosom’d  ’mong  the 
The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills  ; 
The  Tay  meand'ring  sweet  in  infant  pride, 

The  palace  rising  on  his  verdent  side  ; [taste  ; 
The  lawns  wood-fring’d  in  Nature’s  native 
The  hillocks  dropt  in  Nature’s  careless  haste, 
The  arches  striding  o’er  the  new-born-stream  ; 
The  village  glittering  in  the  noontide  beam. 
***** 

Poetic  ardors  in  my  bosom  swell, 

Lone  wand ’ring  by  the  hermit’s  mossy  cell ; 
The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods  ; 

Th’  incessant  roar  of  headlong,  tumbling  floods— 
***** 

Here  posey  mignt  wake  her  heav’n-taught  lyre, 
And  look  through  nature  with  creative  fire  ; 
Here,  too,  the  wrongs  of  fate  half  reconcil’d, 
Misfortune's  lighten'd  steps  might  wander  wild ; 
And  Disappointment,  in  these  lonely  bounds. 
Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter  rankling  wounds ; 
Here  heart-struck  Grief  might  heav’n-ward 
stretch  her  scan, 

And  injur’d  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 
***** 


WRITTEN  WITH  A PENCIL, 

STANDING  BY  THE  FALL  OF  FYERS,  NEAR  LOCH- 
NESS. 

Among  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods, 

The  roaring  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods  ; 

Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds, 
Where,  through  a shapeless  breach,  his  stream 
resounds. 

As  high  in  air  the  bursting  torrents  flow, 

As  deep  recoiling  surges  loam  below,  [scends, 
Prone  down  the  rock  the  whitening  sheet  de- 
And  viewless  echo’s  ear,  astonish’d,  rends. 
Dim-seen,  through  rising  mists  and  ceaseless 
show’rs, 

The  hoary  cavern,  wide- surrounding  low’rs, 
Still  thro’  the  gap  the  struggling  river  toils, 

And  still  below  the  horrid  caldron  boils — 
***** 


ON  THE  BIRTH 

OF  A 

POSTHUMOUS  CHILD, 

BORN  IN  PECULIAR  CIRCUMSTANCES  OF  FAMILY 
DISTRESS. 

Sweet  Flow’ret,  pledge  o’  meikle  love, 

And  ward  o’  mony  a pray’r, 

What  heart  o’  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 

Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair  ! 

November  hirples  o’er  the  lea, 

Chill,  on  thy  lovely  form ; 


And  gane,  alas ! the  shelt’ring  tree, 
Should  shield  thee  frae  the  storm. 

May  He  who  gives  the  rain  to  pour, 
And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw, 

Protect  thee  frae  the  driving  show’r, 
The  bitter  frost  and  snaw  ! 

May  He,  the  friend  of  wo  and  want, 
Who  heals  life’s  various  stounds, 

Protect  and  guard  the  mother  plant, 
And  heal  her  cruel  wounds  ! 

But  late  she  flourish’d,  rooted  fast, 
Fair  on  the  summer  morn  : 

Now  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast, 
Unshelter’d  and  forlorn. 

Blest  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gem, 
Unscath’d  by  ruffian  hand  ! 

And  from  thee  many  a parent  stem 
Arise  to  deck  our  land  ! 


THE  WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

As  the  authentic  prose  history  of  the  Whistle  is 
curious,  I shall  here  give  it.— In  the  train  of  Anne  of 
Denmark,  when  she  came  to  Scotland,  with  our 
James  the  Sixth,  there  came  over  also  a Danish  gen- 
tleman of  gigantic  stature  and  great  prowess,  and 
a matchless  champion  of  Bacchus.  He  had  a little 
ebony  Whistle,  which,  at  the  commencement  of  the 
orgies  he  laid  on  the  table,  and  whoever  was  last 
able  to  blow  it,  every  body  else  being  disabled  by  the 
potency  of  the  bottle,  was  to  carry  off  the  Whistle  as 
a trophy  of  victory.  The  Dane  produced  credentials 
of  his  victories,  without  a single  defeat,  at  the  courts 
of  Copenhagen,  Stockholm,  Moscow,  Warsaw,  and 
several  of  the  petty  courts  in  Germany ; and  chal- 
lenged the  Scots  Bacchanalians  to  the  alternative  of 
trying  his  prowess,  or  else  of  acknowledging  their 
inferiority.— After  many  overthrows  on  the  part  of 
the  Scots,  the  Dane  was  encountered  by  Sir  Robert 
Lawrie  of  Maxwelton,  ancestor  of  the  present  wor- 
thy baronet  of  that  name  ; who,  after  three  days’  and 
three  nights’  hard  contest,  left  the  Scandinavian  un- 
der the  table, 

And  blew  on  the  Whistle  his  requiem  shrill. 

Sir  Walter,  son  to  Sir  Robert  before  mentioned, 
afterwards  lost  the  Whistle  to  Walter  Riddel  of 
Glenriddel,  who  had  marred  a sister  of  Sir  Walter’s. 
On  Friday  the  I6th  of  October,  1790,  at  Friars-Carse, 
the  Whistle  was  once  more  contended  for,  as  related 
in  the  ballad,  by  the  present  Sir  Robert  Lawrie  of 
Maxwelton  ; Robert  Riddel,  Esq.  of  Glenriddel,  lin- 
eal descendant  and  representative  of  Walter  Riddel, 
who  won  the  Whistle,  and  in  whose  family  it  had 
continued  ; and  Alexander  Fergusson,  Esq.  of  Craig- 
darroch,  likewise  descended  of  the.  great  Sir  Robert ; 
which  last  gentleman  carried  off  the  hard-won  hon- 
ors of  the  field. 


I sing  of  a Whistle,  a Whistle  of  worth, 

I sing  of  a Whistle,  the  pride  of  the  North, 
Was  brought  to  the  court  of  our  good  Scottish 
king.  [ring. 

And  long  with  this  Whistle  all  Scotland  shall 

Old  Loda,*  still  rueing  the  arm  of  Finga  1, 
The  god  of  the  bottle  sends  down  from  his  hall — 
“ This  Whistle’s  your  challenge  — to  Scotland 
get  o’er,  [more!” 

\nd  drink  them  to  hell,  Sir  ! or  ne’er  see  me 
*See  Ossian’s  Carric-thura. 


56 


BURNS 


POEMS. 


Old  poets  have  sung,  and  old  chronicles  tell, 
The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror  still, 
What  champions  ventur’d,  what  champions  fell ; 
And  blew  on  the  Whistle  his  requiem  shrill. 

Till  Robert,  the  lord  of  the  Cairn  and  the 
Scaur, 

Unmatch’d  at  the  bottle,  unconquer’d  in  war, 
He  drank  his  poor  god-ship  as  deep  as  the  sea, 
No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e’er  drunker  than  he. 

Thus  Robert  victorious,  the  trophy  has  gain’d; 
Which  now  in  his  house  for  ages  remain’d  ; 

Till  three  noble  chieftains,  and  all  of  his  blood, 
The  jovial  contest  again  have  renew’d. 

Three  joyous  good  fellows,  with  hearts  clear  of 
flaw  ; 

Craigdarroch,  so  famous  for  wit,  worth  and  law; 
And  trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skill’d  in  old  coins  ; 
And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep  read  in  old  wines. 

Craigdarroch  began,  with  a tongue  smooth  as 
oil, 

Desiring  Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the  spoil ; 

Or  else  he  would  muster  the  heads  of  the  clan, 
And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  which  was  the  man. 

“ By  the  gods  of  the  ancients  !”  Glenriddel  re- 
plies, 

Before  I surrender  so  glorious  a prize. 

I’ll  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Rorie  More,* 
And  bumper  his  horn  with  him  twenty  times 
o’er.” 

Sir  Robert,  a soldier,  no  speech  -would  pretend, 
But  he  ne’er  turn’d  his  back  on  his  foe — or  his 
friend, 

Said,  toss  down  the  Whistle,  the  prize  of  the 
field, 

And  knee-deep  in  claret,  he’d  die  or  he’d  yield. 

To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes  repair, 
So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and  care  ; 

But  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more  known 
to  fame, 

Than  the  sense,  wit,  and  taste,  of  a sweet,  lovely 
dame. 

* See  Johnson’s  Tour  to  the  Hebrides. 


A bard  was  selected  to  witness  the  fray, 

And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the  day  ; 

A bard  who  detested  all  sadness  and  spleen, 
And  wish’d  that  Parnassus  a vineyard  had  been. 

The  dinner  being  over,  the  claret  they  ply, 
And  every  new  cork  is  a new  spring  of  ioy  ; 

In  the  bands  of  old  friendship  and  kindred  so  set, 
And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they 
were  wet. 

Gay  pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o’er ; 
Bright  Phoebus  ne’er  witness’d  so  joyous  a core, 
Ana  vow’d  that  to  leave  them  he  was  quite  for 
lorn, 

Till  Cynthia  hinted  he’d  find  them  next  morn. 

Six  bottles  a-piece  had  well  wore  out  the  night, 
When  gallant  Sir  Robert  to  finish  the  fight, 
Turn’d  o’er  in  one  bumper  a bottle  of  red, 

And  swore  ’twas  the  way  that  their  ancestors  did. 

Then  worthy  Glenriddel, so  cautious  and  sage, 
No  longer  the  warfare,  ungodly  would  wage  ; 
A high- ruling  Elder  to  wallow  in  wine  ! 

He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  divine. 

The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the  end; 
But  who  can  with  fate  and  quart  bumpers  con- 
tend ? 

Though  fate  said  — a hero  should  perish  in 
light ; 

So  uprose  bright  Phoebus — and  down  fell  the 
knight. 

Next  uprose  our  bard,  like  a prophet  in 
drink  : — 

“ Craigdarroch,  thou’lt  soar  when  creation  shall 
sink  ! 

But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyme. 
Come — one  bottle  more — and  have  at  the  sub- 
lime ! 

“ Thy  line,  which  has  struggled  for  Freedom 
with  Bruce, 

Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce  : 

So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay ; 
The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  god  of 
day !” 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES  OF  POETRY, 

EXTRACTED 

FROM  THE  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS; 

SONGS, 

COMPOSED  FOR  THE  MUSICAL  PUBLICATIONS  OF  MESSRS.  THOMSON  AND  JOHNSON. 

WITH  ADDITIONAL  PIECES. 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

A BROTHER  POET.* 

Auld  NEEBOR — 

I’m  three  times  doubly  o’er  your  debtor, 

For  your  auld-farrant,  frien’ly  letter  ; 

Tho’  I maun  say’t,  I doubt  ye  flatter, 

Y e speak  sae  fair  ; 

For  my  puir,  silly,  rhymin’  clatter, 

Some  less  maun  sair. 

Hale  be  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddle ; 

Lang  may  your  elbuck  jink  an’  diddle, 

To  cheer  you  thro’  the  weary  widdle 
O’  war’ly  cares, 

Till  bairns’  bairns  kindly  cuddle 

Your  auld,  gray  hairs. 

But,  Davie,  lad,  I’m  red  ye’re  glaikit; 

I’m  tauld  the  Muse  ye  hae  negleckit ; 

An’  gif  it’s  sae,  ye  sud  be  licket 

Until  ye  fyke  ; 

Sic  hauns  as  you  sud  ne’er  be  faikit, 

Be  hain’t  wha  like. 

For  me,  I ’m  on  Parnassus’  brink, 

Riven’  the  words  to  gar  them  clink  ; 

Whyles  dais’t  wi’  love,  whyles  dais’t  wi’ drink, 
Wi’  jads  or  masons  ; 

An’  whyles,  but  ay  owre  late,  I think 

Braw  sober  lessons. 

Of  a’  the  thoughtless  sons  o’  man, 

Commen’  me  to  the  Bardie  clan  ; 

Except  it  be  some  idle  plan 

O’  rhymin’  clink, 

The  devil-haet,  that  I sud  ban, 

They  ever  think. 

Nae  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  o’  livin’, 
Nae  cares  to  give  us  joy  or  grievin’ : 

But  just  the  pouchie  put  the  nieve  in. 

An’  while  ought’s  there, 
Then,  hiltie  skiltie,  we  gae  scrievin’, 

An’  fash  nae  mair. 

•This  is  prefixed  to  the  poems  of  Da  vid  Sillar,  pub- 
lished at  Kilmarnock,  1750. 


Leeze  me  on  rhyme  ! it’s  aye  a treasure, 

My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure, 

At  hame,  a-fiel’,  at  wark  or  leisure, 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie 
Tho’  rough  an’  raploch  be  her  measure, 

She’s  seldom  lazy. 

Haud  to  the  Muse,  my  dainty  Davie  ; 

The  warl’  may  play  you  monie  a shavie  ; 

But  for  the  Muse,  she’ll  never  leave  ye, 

Tho’  e’er  sae  puir, 

Na,  even  tho’  limpin  wi’  the  spavie 

Frae  door  to  door. 


THE  LASS  OF  BALLOOHMYLE. 

’Twas  eve — the  dewy  fields  were  green, 
On  ev’ry  blade  the  pearls  hang  ; 

The  zephyr  wanton’d  round  the  bean, 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang  : 

In  every  glen  the  mavis  sans, 

All  nature  listening  seem’d  the  while, 

Except  where  green-wood  echoes  rang, 
Amang  the  braes  o’  Ballochmyle. 

With  careless  step  I onward  strayed, 

My  heart  rejoiced  in  nature’s  joy, 

When  musing  in  a lonely  glade, 

A maiden  fair  I chanced  to  spy ; 

Her  look  was  like  the  morning’s  eye, 

Her  air  like  nature’s  vernal  smile, 

Perfection  whispered,  passing  by, 

Behold  the  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flowery  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  autumn  mild ; 

When  roving  thro’  the  garden  gay, 

Or  wandering  in  the  lonely  wild  ; 

But  woman,  nature’s  darling  child  ! 

There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile  ; 

Even  there  her  other  works  are  foil’d 
By  the  bonnie  lass  of  Ballochmyle. 

O,  had  she  been  a country  maid. 

And  I the  happy  country  swain, 

Tho’  sheltered  in  the  lowest  shed 
That  ever  rose  in  Scotland’s  plain  ! 

57 


58 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Thro’  weary  winter’s  wind  and  rain, 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I would  toil ; 

And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 
The  bonnie  lass  of  Ballochmyle. 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slipp’ry  steep, 
Where  fame  and  honors  lofty  shine ; 

And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 
Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine ; 

Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks  or  till  the  soil, 

And  ev’rv  day  have  joys  divine, 

With  the  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  less’ning  ray, 
That  lov’st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 

Again  thou  usherest  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

O Mary  ! dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 

See’st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I forget, 

Can  I forget  the  hallowed  grove, 

Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ! 

Eternity  will  not  efface, 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 

Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ; 

Ah  ! little  thought  we  ’twas  our  last ! 


Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 
O’erhung  with  wildwoods,  thick’ning  green, 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar, 
Twin’d  arn’rous  round  the  raptured  scene. 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 

Till  too,  too  soon  the  glowing  west, 
Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 


Still  o’er  these  scenes  my  mem’ry  wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 

Time  but  th’  impression  deeper  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  blissful  place  of  rest? 

See’st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’ st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 


LINES  ON 

AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  LORD  DAER. 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 

I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 

A ne’er  to  be  forgotten  day, 

Sae  far  I sprackled  up  the  brae, 

I dinner’d  wi’  a Lord. 

I’ve  been  at  drunken  writer's  feasts. 

Nay,  been  bitch-fou  ’mang  godly  priests, 
Wi’  rev’rence  be  it  spoken; 

I’ve  even  join’d  the  honor’d  jorum. 

When  mighty  Squireships  of  the  quorum, 
Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

But  wi’  a Lord — stand  out  my  shin, 

A Lord — a Peer — an  Earl’s  son. 

Up  higher  yet  my  bonnet ; 


An’  sic  a Lord — lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
Our  Peerage  he  o’erlooks  them  a’, 

As  I look  o’er  my  sonnet. 

But  oh  for  Hogarth’s  magic  pow’r, 

To  show  Sir  Bardy’s  willyart  glowr, 

And  how  he  star’d  and  stammer’d, 
When  goavan,  as  if  led  wi’  branks, 

An’  stumpan’  on  his  ploughman  shanks, 
He  in  the  parlor  hammer’d. 
******** 

I sliding  shelter’d  in  a nook, 

An’  at  his  Lordship  steal’ t a look 

Like  some  portentous  omen  ; 
Except  good-sense  and  social  glee, 

An’  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 

I marked  nought  uncommon. 

I watch’d  the  symptoms  o’  the  Great, 
The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state, 

The  arrogant  assuming  ; 

The  feint  a pride,  nae  pride  had  he, 

Nor  sauce,  nor  state  that  I could  see, 
Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 

Then  from  his  Lordship  I shall  learn, 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 
One  rank  as  well’s  another ; 

Nae  honest  worthy  man  need  care, 

To  meet  with  noble,  youthful  Daer, 

For  he  but  meets  a brother. 


ON  A YOUNG  LADY, 

Residing  on  the  banks  of  the  small  river  Devon,  in 
Clackmannanshire,  but  whose  infant  years  were 
spent  in  Ayrshire. 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear-winding 
Devon,  [blooming  fair ; 

With  green-spreading  bushes,  and  flowers 
But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the 
Devon, 

Was  once  a sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the  Ayr. 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flower, 
In  the  gay  rosy  morn  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew  ; 
And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower, 
That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  renew. 

O,  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 
With  chill  hoary  wings  as  ye  usher  the  dawn  1 
And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 
The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and  lawn! 

Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies, 

And  England  triumphant  display  her  proud 
rose  ; 

A fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  valleys, 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering 
flows. 


CASTLE  GORDON. 

I. 

Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains, 
Never  bound  by  winter’s  chains  ; 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands, 
There  commix’d  with  foulest  stains 
From  tyranny’s  empurpled  bands  ; 
These,  their  richly-gleaming  waves, 


BURNS 


POEMS. 


59 


I leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves  ; 

Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 
The  banks,  by  Castle  Gordon. 

II. 

Spicy  forests,  ever  gay, 

Shading  from  the  burning  ray  ; 

Hapless  wretches  sold  to  toil, 

Or  the  ruthless  native’s  way, 

Bent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoil : 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 

I leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave ; 

Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  brave 
The  storms,  by  Castle  Gordon. 

III. 

Wildly  here  without  control, 

Nature  reigns  and  rules  the  whole  ; 

In  that  sober,  pensive  mood, 

Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 

She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood  ; 
Life’s  poor  day  I’ll  musing  rave  ; 

And  find  at  night  a sheltering  cave, 
Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave, 
By  bonnie  Castle  Gordon.  * 


NAE-BODY. 

I hae  a wife  o’  my  ain, 

I’ll  partake  wi’  nae-body  ; 

I’ll  tak  cuckold  frae  nane, 

I’ll  gie  cuckold  to  nae-body. 

I hae  a penny  to  spend, 

There — thanks  to  nae-body; 

I hae  naething  to  lend, 

I’ll  borrow  frae  nae-body. 

I am  nae-body’s  lord, 

I’ll  be  slave  to  nae-body  ; 

I hae  a guid  braid  sword, 

I’ll  tak  dunts  frae  nae-body. 

I’ll  be  merry  and  free, 

I’ll  be  sad  for  nae-body; 

If  nae-body  care  for  me, 

I’ll  care  for  nae-body. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A LAP-DOG, 
NAMED  ECHO. 

In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng, 
Your  heavy  loss  deplore  ; 

Now  half-extinct  your  power  of  song, 
Sweet  Echo  is  no  more. 

Ye  jarring,  screeching  things  around, 
Scream  your  discordant  joys  ; 

Now  half  your  din  of  tuneless  sound 
With  Echo  silent  lies. 


SONG.I 

Tune — “ I am  a man  unmarried.” 

O,  once  I lov’d  a bonnie  lass, 

Ay,  and  I love  her  still, 

And  whilst  that  virtue  warms  my  breast, 

I’ll  love  my  handsome  Nell. 

Tal  lal  de  ral,  <fa. 

•These  versos  our  Poet  composed  to  be  sung  to 
Morag , a Highland  air,  of  which  he  was  extremely 
fond. 

t This  was  our  Poet’s  first  attempt. 


As  bonnie  lasses  I hae  seen, 

And  mony  full  as  braw, 

But  for  a modest,  gracefu’  mien, 

The  like  I never  saw. 

A bonnie  lass,  I will  confess, 

Is  pleasant  to  the  e’e, 

But  without  some  better  qualities 
She’s  no  a lass  for  me. 

But  Nelly’s  looks  are  blythe  and  sweet, 
And  what  is  best  of  a’, 

Her  reputation  is  complete, 

And  fair  without  a flaw. 

She  dresses  ay  sae  clean  and  neat, 

Both  decent  and  genteel ; 

And  then  there’s  something  in  her  gait 
Gars  ony  dress  look  week 

A gaudy  dress  and  gentle  air 
May  slightly  toucn  the  heart, 

But  it’s  innocence  and  modesty 
That  polishes  the  dart. 

’Tis  this  in  Nelly  pleases  me, 

’Tis  this  enchants  my  soul ; 

For  absolutely  in  my  breast 
She  reigns  without  control. 

Tal  lal  de  ral,  <$-c. 


INSCRIPTION 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  FURGUSSON. 

HERE  LIES  ROBERT  FURGUSSON,  POET. 

Born , September  5th,  1751  — Died,  1 6th  October , 1774. 

No  sculptur’d  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 
“No  storied  urn,  nor  animated  bust,” 

This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia’s  way, 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o’er  her  poet’s  dust. 


THE  CHEVALIER’S  LAMENT. 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leave  re- 
turning, [the  vale ; 

The  murmuring  streamlet  winds  clear  thro’ 

The  hawthorn  trees  blow  in  the  dews  of  the 
morning,  [dale : 

And  wild  scatter’d  cowslips  bedeck  the  green 

But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what  can  seem 
fair, 

While  the  lingering  moments  are  number’d 
by  care  ? [singing, 

No  flowers  gaily  springing,  nor  birds  sweetly 
Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless  despair. 

The  deed  that  I dar’d,  could  it  merit  their  malice, 
A king  and  a father  to  place  on  his  throne  ? 

His  right  are  these  hills,  and  his  right  are  these 
valleys,  [find  none. 

Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter,  but  I can 

But  ’tis  not  my  sufferings  thus  wretched,  forlorn, 
My  brave  gallant  friends,  ’tis  your  ruin  I 
mourn  : 

Y our  deeds  prov’d  so  loyal  in  hot  bloody  trial, 
Alas  ! can  I make  you  no  sweeter  return ! 


60 


BURNS’  POEMS 


EPISTLE  TO  R.  GRAHAM,  Esq. 

When  Nature  her  great  master-piece  design’d, 
And  fram’d  her  last  best  work,  the  human  mind, 
Her  eye  intent  on  all  the  mazy  plan, 

She  form’d  of  various  parts  the  various  man. 

Then  first  she  calls  the  useful  many  forth ; 
Plain  plodding  industry  and  sober  worth : 
Thence  peasants,  farmers,  native  sons  of  earth, 
And  merchandise’  whole  genus  take  their  birth: 
Each  prudent  cit  a warm  existence  finds, 

And  all  mechanics’  many  apron’d  kinds. 

Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet, 

The  lead  and  buoy  are  needful  to  the  net ; 

The  caput  mortuum  of  gross  desires 

Makes  a material  for  mere  knights  and  squires, 

The  martial  phosphorus  is  taught  to  flow; 

She  kneads  the  lumpish  philosophic  dough, 
Then  marks  th’  unyielding  mass  with  grave 
designs, 

Law,  physics,  politics,  and  deep  divines : 

Last,  she  sublimes  th’  Aurora  of  the  poles, 

The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls. 

The  order’d  system  fair  before  her  stood, 
Nature,  well-pleas’d,  pronounced  it  very  good ; 
But  e’er  she  gave  creating  labor  o’er, 

Half  jest,  she  try’d  one  curious  labor  more : 
Some  spumy,  fiery,  ignis  fatuus  matter  ; 

Such  as  the  slightest  breath  of  air  might  scatter; 
With  arch-alacrity  and  conscious  glee, 

(Nature  may  have  her  whim  as  well  as  we, 

Her  Hogarth-art  perhaps  she  meant  to  show  it) 
She  forms  the  thing,  and  christens  it — a poet. 
Creature  tho’  oft  tne  prey  of  care  and  sorrow, 
When  blest  to-day,  unmindful  of  to-morrow; 

A being  form’d  t’  amuse  his  graver  friends, 
Admir’d  and  prais’d — and  there  the  homage 
ends : 

A mortal  quite  unfit  for  Fortune’s  strife, 

Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life  ; 

Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 

Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live  : 
Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

Btit  honest  nature  is  not  quite  a Turk, 

She  laugh’d  at  first,  then  felt  for  her  poor  work. 
Pitying  the  propless  climber  of  mankind, 

She  cast  about  a standard  tree  to  find  ; 

And,  to  support  his  helpless  woodbine  state, 
Attach’d  him  to  the  generous  truly  great, 

A title,  and  the  only  one  I claim,  [ham. 

To  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  bounteous  Gra- 

Pity  the  tuneful  muses’  hapless  train, 

Weak,  timid  landmen  on  life’s  stormy  main  ! 
Their  hearts  no  selfish,  stern,  absorbent  stuff, 
That  never  gives — tho’  humbly  takes  enough ; 
The  little  fate  allows,  they  share  as  soon, 
Unlike  sage,  proverb’d  Wisdom’s  hard-wrung 
boon. 

The  world  were  blest  did  bliss  on  them  depend, 
Ah,  that  “ the  friendly  e’er  should  want  a 
friend !” 

Let  prudence  number  o’er  each  sturdy  son, 
Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun, 

Who  feel  by  reason,  and  who  give  by  rule, 
(Instinct ’s  a brute,  and  sentiment  a fool !) 
Who  make  poor  will  do  wait  upon  I should — 
We  own  they’re  prudent,  but  who  feels  they’re 
good  ? 


Y e wise  ones,  hence ! ye  hurt  the  social  eye  ! 
God’s  image  rudely  etch’d  on  base  alloy  ! 

But  come,  ye  who  the  godlike  pleasure  know, 
Heaven’s  attribute  distinguish’d — to  bestow  ! 
Whose  arms  of  love  would  grasp  the  human 
race  : 

Come,  thou  who  giv’st  with  all  a courtier’s  grace; 
Friend  of  my  life , true  patron  of  my  rhymes  ! 
Prop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future  times ; 
Why  shrinks  my  soul  half  blushing,  half  afraid* 
Backward,  abash’d,  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid  ? 

I know  my  need,  1 know  thy  giving  hand, 

I crave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command  ; 
But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tuneful  nine — 
Heavens  ! should  the  branded  character  be  mine! 
Whose  verse  in  manhood’s  pride  sublimely 
flows. 

Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 
Mark,  how  their  lofty,  independent  spirit 
Soars  on  the  spurning  wing  of  injur’d  merit ! 
Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  life  to  find  ; 

Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind  ! 

So,  to  heaven’s  gates  the  lark’s  shrill  song  as- 
cends, 

But  groveling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 

In  all  the  clam’rous  cry  of  starving  want, 

They  dun  benevolence  with  shameless  front ; 
Oblige  them,  patronise  their  tinsel  lays, 

They  persecute  you  all  your  future  days  ! 

Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation  stain, 
My  horny  fist  assumes  the  plough  again  ; 

The  piebald  jacket  let  me  patch  once  more  ; 

On  eighteen-pence  a week  I’ve  liv’d  before. 
Though,  thanks  to  Heaven,  I dare  even  that 
last  shift, 

I trust  meantime  my  boon  is  in  thy  gift : 

That  plac’d  by  thee  upon  the  wish’d-for  height, 
Where,  man  and  nature  fairer  in  her  sight, 

My  muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some  sublimer 
flight.* 


A FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  C.  J.  FOX. 

How  wisdom  and  folly  meet,  mix,  and  unite  ; 
How  virtue  and  vice  blend  their  black  and  their 
white ; 

How  genius,  the  illustrious  father  of  fiction, 
Confounds  rule  and  law,  reconciles  contradic- 
tion— 

I sing;  If  these  mortals,  the  critics,  should  bustle, 
I care  not,  not  I,  let  the  critics  go  whistle. 

But  now  for  a Patron,  whose  name  and  whose 
glory 

At  once  may  illustrate  and  honor  my  story. 

Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits ; 
Yet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem  mere 
lucky  hits ; 

With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment  so 
strong, 

No  man  with  the  half  of ’em  e’er  went  far  wrong; 
With  passions  so  potent,  and  fancies  so  bright, 
No  man  with  the  half  of ’em  e’er  went  quite 
right ; 

* This  is  our  Poet’s  first  epistle  to  Graham  of  Fin- 
try.  It  is  not  equal  to  the  second  ; but  it  contains  too 
much  of  the  characteristi-  vigor  of  its  author  to  be  sup- 
pressed. A little  more  knowledge  of  natural  history, 
or  of  chemistry,  was  wanted  to  enable  him  to  execute 
the  original  conception  correctly. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


61 


A sorry,  poor  misbegot  son  of  the  Muses, 

For  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses. 

Good  L — d,  what  is  man ! for  as  simple  he 
looks, 

Do  but  try  to  develop  his  hooks  and  his  crooks  ; 
With  his  depths  and  his  shallows,  his  good  and 
his  evil, 

All  in  all  he’s  a problem  must  puzzle  the  devil. 

On  his  one  ruling  passion  Sir  Pope  hugely 
labors,  [up  its  neighbors  : 

That,  like  th’  old  Hebrew  walking-switch,  eats 
Mankind  are  his  show-box — a friend,  would  you 
know  him  ? [show  him. 

Pull  the  string,  ruling  passion  the  picture  will 
What  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a system, 
One  trifling,  particular  truth,  should  have  miss’d 
him ; 

For,  spite  of  his  fine  theoretic  positions, 
Mankind  is  a science  defies  definitions. 

Some  sort  all  our  qualities  each  to  its  tribe, 
And  think  human  nature  they  truly  describe  ; 
Have  you  found  this,  or  t’other  ? there’s  more  in 
the  wind, 

As  by  one  drunken  fellow  his  comrades  you’ll 
find. 

But  such  is  the  flaw,  or  the  depth  of  the  plan, 

In  the  make  of  that  wonderful  creature,  call’d 
Man, 

No  two  virtues,  whatever  relation  they  claim, 
Nor  even  two  different  shades  of  the  same, 
Though  like  as  was  ever  twin  brother  to  brother, 
Possessing  the  one  shall  imply  you’ve  the  other. 


TO  DR.  BLACLOCK. 

Ellisland,  21st  Oct.  1789. 

Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vauntie ! 

And  are  ye  hale,  and  weel,  and  cantie  ? 

I kenn’d  it  still  your  wee  bit  juntie 

Wad  bring  ye  to  : 

Lord  send  you  ay  as  weel’s  I want  ye, 

And  then  ye’ll  do. 

The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron  south  ! 

And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth ! 

He  tald  myself  by  word  o’  mouth, 

He’d  tak  my  letter ; 

I lippen’d  to  the  chiel  in  trouth, 

And  bade  nae  better. 

But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron 
Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one, 

To  ware  his  theologic  care  on, 

And  holy  study  ; 

And  tir’d  o’  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on, 

E’en  tried  the  body.* 

But  what  d’ye  think,  my  trusty  fier, 

I’m  turn’d  a gauger — Peace  be  here  ! 
Parnassian  queens,  I fear,  I fear 

Ye’ll  now  disdain  me, 

And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a year 

Will  little  gain  me. 

Ye  glaikit,  gleesome,  daintie  damies, 

Whaby  Castalia’s  wimplin  streamies, 

Lowp,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbies, 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken, 

* Mr.  Heron,  author  of  the  History  of  Scotland,  and 
of  various  other  works. 


That  strang  necessity  supreme  is 

’Mang  sons  o’  men. 

I hae  a wife  and  twa  wee  laddies, 

They  maun  hae  brose  and  brats  o’  duddies  ; 

Ye  ken  yoursel,  my  heart  right  proud  is, 

I need  na  vaunt, 

But  I’ll  sned  besoms — thraw  saugh  woodies. 
Before  they  want. 

Lord  help  me  thro’  this  warld  o’  care  ! 

I’m  weary  sick  o’t  late  and  air  ! 

Not  but  I hae  a richer  share 

Than  mony  ithers ; 

But  why  should  ae  man  better  fare, 

And  a’  men  blithers  ? 

Come,  Firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van, 

Thou  stalk  o’  carl-hemp  in  man  ! 

And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne’er  wan 
A lady  fair ; 

Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 

Will  whyles  do  mair. 

But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme, 

(I’m  scant  o’  verse,  and  scant  o’  time,) 

To  make  a happy  fire-side  clime 

To  weans  and  wife, 

That’s  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life. 

My  compliments  to  sister  Beckie  ; 

And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Lucky, 

I wat  she  is  a dainty  chuckie, 

As  e’er  tread  clay  ! 

And  gratefully,  my  guid  auld  cookie. 

I’m  yours  for  ay. 

Robert  Burns. 


PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN  AT  THE  THEATRE  ELLISLAND,  ON  NEW- 
YEAR-DAY  EVENING. 

No  song  nor  dance  I bring  from  yon  great 
city,  [pity : 

That  queens  it  o’er  our  taste — the  more’s  the 
Tho’,  by  the  by,  abroad  why  will  you  roam  ? 
Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here  at  home : 
But  not  for  panegyric  I appear, 

I come  to  wish  you  all  a good  new-year! 

Old  Father  Time  deputes  me  here  before  ye, 
Not  for  to  preach,  but  tell  his  simple  story  : 

The  sage,  grave  ancient  cough’d,  and  bade  me 
say, 

“ You’re  one  year  older  this  important  day,” 

If  wiser  too — he  hinted  some  suggestion, 

But  ’t would  be  rude,  you  know,  to  ask  tho 
question ; 

And  with  a would-be-roguish  leer  and  wink. 
He  bade  me  on  you  press  this  one  word — 
“ think  !” 

Ye  sprightly  youths,  quite  flush  with  hope 
and  spirit, 

Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint  of  merit, 
To  you  the  dotard  has  a deal  to  say, 

In  his  sly,  dry,  sententious,  proverb  way! 

He  bids  you  mind,  amid  your  thoughtless  rattle, 
That  the  first  blow  is  ever  half  the  battle  ; 

That  tho’  some  by  the  skirt  may  try  to  snatch 
him ; 

Yet  by  the  forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch  him  ; 


BURNS* 


POEMS. 


G2 

That  whether  doing,  suffering,  or  forbearing, 
You  may  do  miracles  by  persevering. 

Last,  tho’  not  least  in  love,  ye  youthful  fair, 
Angelic  forms,  high  Heaven’s  peculiar  care  ! 

To  you  old  Bald-pate  smooths  his  wrinkled 
brow, 

And  humbly  begs  you’ll  mind  the  important — 
now  ! 

To  crown  your  happiness  he  asks  your  leave, 
And  offers,  bliss  to  give  and  to  receive. 

For  our  sincere,  tho’  haply  weak  endeavors, 
With  greatful  pride  we  own  your  many  favors; 
And  howsoe’er  our  tongues  may  ill  reveal  it, 
Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  truly  feel  it. 


ELEGY 

ON  THE  LATE  MISS  BURNET, 

OF  MONBODDO. 

Life  ne’er  exulted  in  so  rich  a prize, 

As  Burnet,  lovely  from  her  native  skies  ; 

Nor  envious  death  so  triumph’d  in  a blow, 

As  that  which  laid  the  accomplish’d  Burnet  low. 

Thy  form  and  mind;  sweet  maid,  can  I forget  ? 
In  richest  ore  the  brightest  jewel  set ! 

In  thee,  high  Heaven  above  was  truest  shown, 
As  by  his  noble  work,  the  Godhead  best  is 
known. 

In  vain  ye  flaunt  in  summer’s  pride,  ye  groves; 

Thou  crystal  streamlet,  with  thy  flowery  shore, 
Ye  woodland  choir,  that  chant  your  idle  loves, 
Ye  cease  to  charm — Eliza  is  no  more  ! 

Ye  heathy  wastes,  immix’d  with  reedy  fens; 
Ye  mossy  streams,  with  sedge  and  rushes 
stor’d ; 

Ye  rugged  cliffs,  o’erhanging  dreary  glens, 

To  you  I fly,  ye  with  my  soul  accord. 

Princes,  whose  cumb’rous  pride  was  all  their 
worth, 

Shall  venal  lays  their  pompous  exit  hail  ? 

And  thou,  sweet  excellence  ! forsake  our  earth, 
And  not  a muse  in  honest  grief  bewail  ? 

We  saw  thee  shine  in  youth  and  beauty’s  pride, 
And  virtue’s  light,  that  beams  beyond  the 
spheres : 

But  like  the  sun  eclips’d  at  morning  tide, 

Thou  left’st  us  darkling  in  a world  of  tears. 

The  parent’s  heart  that  nestled  fond  in  thee. 
That  heart  how  sunk,  a prey  to  grief  and  care! 
So  deck’d  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree, 
So  from  it  ravish’d,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bare. 


IMITATION 

OF  AN  OLD  JACOBITE  SONG. 

By  yon  castle  wa\  at  the  close  of  the  day, 

I heard  a man  sing,  tho’  his  head  it  was  gray ; 
And  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  fast  down 
came — 

There  ’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 


The  church  is  in  ruins,  the  state  is  in  jars, 
Delusions,  oppressions,  and  murderous  wars ; 
We  dare  na  weel  say’t,  but  we  ken  wha’s  to 
blame — 

There  ’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

My  seven  braw  sons  for  Jamie  drew  sword, 
And  now  I greet  round  their  green  beds  in  the 
yerd  1 [dame — 

It  brak  the  sweet  heart  o’  my  faithfu’  auld 
There  ’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

Now  life  is  a burden  that  bows  me  down, 

Sin’  I tint  my  bairns,  and  he  tint  his  crown ; 
But  till  my  last  moment  my  words  are  the 
same — 

There  ’ll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 

Scene— a field  of  battle  ; time  of  the  day— evening;  the 
wounded  and  dying  of  the  victorious  army  are  sup- 
posed to  join  in  the  following  Song. 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and 
ye  skies, 

Now  gay  with  the  bright  setting  sun  ! [ties, 
Farewell,  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear  tender 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run ! 

Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  thou  life’s  gloomy 
foe. 

Go,  frighten  the  coward  and  slave  ; [know, 
Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant ! but 
No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave  ! 

Thou  strik’st  the  dull  peasant — he  sinks  in  the 
dark, 

Nor  saves  e’en  the  wreck  of  a name ; 

Thou  strik’st  the  young  hero — a glorious  mark ! 
He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame  ! 

In  the  field  of  proud  honor — our  swords  in  our 
hands, 

Our  king  and  our  country  to  save, — 

While  victory  shines  on  life’s  last  ebbing  sands, 
O who  would  not  rest  with  the  brave  ! 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  WOMAN, 

An  Occasional  Address  spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle  on 
her  Benefit-Night. 

W iiile  Europe’s  eye  is  fix’d  on  mighty  things, 
The  fate  of  empires  and  the  fall  of  kings, 

While  quacks  ofstate  must  each  produce  his  plan, 
And  even  children  lisp  the  Rights  of  Man  ; 
Amidst  this  mighty  fuss,  just  let  me  mention, 
The  Rights  of  Woman  merit  some  attention. 

First,  in  the  sexes’  intermixed  connection, 
One  sacred  Right  of  Woman  is  ■protection. — 
The  tender  flower  that  lifts  its  head,  elate, 
Helpless,  must  fall  before  the  blasts  of  fate, 
Sunk  on  the  earth,  defac’d  its  lovely  form, 
Unless  your  shelter  ward  th’  impending  storm. 

Our  second  Right — but  needless  here  is  cau- 
tion, 

To  keep  that  right  inviolate’s  the  fashion. 

Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before  him, 
He’d  die  before  he’d  wrong  it — ’tis  decorum. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


There  was,  indeed,  in  far  less  polish’d  days. 

A time,  when  rough  rude  man  had  naughty 
ways  ; [riot ; 

Would  swagger,  swear,  get  drunk,  kick  up  a 
Nay,  even  thus  invade  a lady’s  quiet. — 

Now,  thank  our  stars  ! these  Gothic  times  are 
fled  ; [bred — 

Now,  well-bred  men — and  you  are  all  well- 
Most  justly  think  (and  we  are  much  the  gainers) 
Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit,  nor  manners. 

For  Right  the  third,  our  last,  our  best,  our 
dearest, 

That  right  to  fluttering  female  hearts  the  nearest, 
Which  even  the  Rights  of  Kings  in  low  pros- 
tration, 

Most  humbly  own — ’tis  dear,  dear  admiration  ! 
In  that  blest  sphere  alone  we  live  and  move  ; 
There  taste  that  life  of  life — immortal  love. — 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,  tears,  fits,  flirtations, airs, 
’Gainst  such  a host  what  flinty  savage  dares — 
When  awful  Beauty  joins  with  all  her  charms, 
Who  is  so  rash  as  rise  in  rebel  arms  ? 

But  truce  with  kings,  and  truce  with  consti- 
tutions, 

With  bloody  armaments  and  revolutions  ; 

Let  majesty  our  first  attention  summon, 

Ah  ! ca  ira  ! the  Majesty  of  Woman ! 


ADDRESS, 

Spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle , on  her  Benefit-Night , De- 
cember 4,  1793i  at  the  Theatre , Dumfries. 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favor, 

And  not  less  anxious,  sure,  this  night,  than  ever, 
A Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  some  such  matter, 
’Twould  vamp  my  bill,  said  I,  if  nothing  better; 
So,  sought  a Poet,  roosted  near  the  skies, 

Told  him  I came  to  feast  my  curious  eyes  ; 
Said,  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever  printed  ; 
And  last  my  Prologue-business  slily  hinted. 

“ Ma’am,  let  me  tell  you,”  quoth  my  man  of 
rhymes,  [times : 

“I  know  your  bent — these  are  no  laughing 
Can  you — but  Miss,  I own  I have  my  fears, 
Dissolve  in  pause — and  sentimental  tears — 
With  laden  sighs,  and  solemn-rounded  sentence, 
Rouse  from  his  sluggish  slumbers,  fell  Repen- 
tance ? 

Paint  Vengeance  as  he  takes  his  horrid  stand, 
Waving  on  high  the  desolating  brand, 

Calling  the  storm  to  bear  him  o’er  a guilty 
land  ?” 

I could  no  more — askance  the  creature  eye- 
ing, [ing? 

D’ye  think,  said  I,  this  face  was  made  for  cry- 
1*11  laugh,  that’s  poz — nay  more,  the  world  shall 
know  it ; 

And  so,  your  servant ! gloomy  Master  Poet. 

Firm  as  my  creed,  Sirs,  ’tis  my  fix’d  belief, 
That  Misery’s  another  word  for  Grief: 

I also  think — so  may  I be  a bride  ! 

That  so  much  laughter,  so  much  life  enjoy’d. 

Thou  man  of  crazy  care  and  ceaseless  sigh, 
Still  under  bleak  Misfortune’s  blasting  eye  ; 
Doom’d  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  alive — 

To  make  three  guineas  do  the  work  of  five : 


63 

Laugh  in  Misfortune’s  face-  the  beldam  witch ! 
Say,  you’ll  be  merry,  though  you  can’t  be  rich. 

Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in  love, 
Who  long  with  jiltish  arts  and  airs  hast  strove  ; 
Who,  as  the  boughs  all  temptingly  project, 
Measur’st  in  desperate  thought — a rope — thy 
neck — 

Or,  where  the  beetling  cliff  o’erhangs  the  deep, 
Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap  ; 

Wouldst  thou  be  cur’d,  thou  silly,  moping  elf, 
Laugh  at  her  follies — laugh  e’en  at  thyself: 
Learn  to  despise  those  frowns  now  so  terrific, 
And  love  a kinder — that’s  your  grand  specific. 

To  sum  up  all,  be  merry  I advise  ; 

And  as  we’re  merry,  may  we  still  be  wise. 


SONGS. 


THE  LEA -RIG. 

When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star, 

Tells  bughtin-time  is  near,  my  jo  ; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrow'd  field, 
Return  sae  dowf  and  weary,  O ; 

Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks, 
Wi’  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo, 

I’ll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 

I’d  rove  and  ne’er  be  eerie,  O, 

If  thro’  that  glen,  I gaed  to  thee, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O, 

Altho’  the  night  were  ne’er  sae  wild, 
And  I were  ne’er  sae  wearie,  O, 

I’d  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

The  hunter  lo’es  the  morning  sun, 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo, 
At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen, 

Along  the  burn  to  steer,  my  jo. 

Gie  me  the  hour  o’  gloamin  gray. 

It  maks  my  heart  sae  cheery,  O, 

To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

~ ©©«<«•*— 


TO  MARY. 

Tune — “ Ewe-bughts,  Marion.” 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

And  leave  auld  Scotia’s  shore  ? 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
Across  th’  Atlantic’s  roar  ? 

0 sweet  grows  the  lime  and  the  orange, 
And  the  apple  on  the  pine  ; 

But  a’  the  charms  o’  the  Indies, 

Can  never  equal  thine. 

1 hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  my  Mary, 
I hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  be  true ; 

And  sae  may  the  Heavens  forget  me, 
When  I forget  my  vow  ! 


64 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


O plight  me  your  faitn,  my  Mary, 

And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand ; 

O plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 

Before  I leave  Scotia’s  strand. 

We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join, 

And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us ! 
The  hour,  and  the  moment  o’  time  !* 


MY  WIFE’S  A WINSOME  WEE 
THING. 

She  is  a winsome  wee  thing, 

She  is  a handsome  wee  thing. 

She  is  a bonnie  wee  thing. 

This  sweet  wee  wife  o’  mine. 

I never  saw  a fairer, 

I never  lo’ed  a dearer, 

And  niest  my  heart  I’ll  wear  her, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

She  is  a winsome  wee  thing, 

She  is  a handsome  wee  thing, 

She  is  a bonnie  wee  thing. 

This  sweet  wee  wife  o’  mine. 

The  warld’s  wrack  we  share  o’t, 

The  warstle  and  the  care  o’t ; 

Wi’  her  I’ll  blithly  bear  it, 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 


BONNIE  LESLEY. 

O saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley, 

As  she  gaed  o’er  the  border? 

She’s  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  forever  ; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 

And  ne’er  made  sic  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a queen,  fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee  ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 

The  hearts  o’  men  adore  thee. 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee  ; 

He’d  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 

And  say,  “ I canna  wrang  thee.” 

The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee  ; 
Misfortune  sha’na  steer  thee  ; 

Thou’rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely, 

That  ill  they’ll  ne’er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie  ! 

That  we  may  brag,  we  hae  a lass 
There’s  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 

HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Tune—1 “ Catharine  Ogie.” 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around. 
The  castle  o’  Montgomery, 

* This  song  Mr.  Thomson  has  not  adopted  in  his 
collection.  It  deserves, however, to  be  preserved.— E. 


Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 
Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 

There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ; 

For  there  I took  the  last  fareweel 
O’  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom’d  the  gay  green  birk, 
How  rich  the  hawthorn’s  blossom  ; 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 
I clasp’d  her  to  my  bosom  ! 

The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o’er  me  and  my  dearie; 

For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life, 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi’  mony  a vow,  and  lock’d  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu’  tender ; 

And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder; 

But  oh  ! fell  death’s  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 

Now  green’s  the  sod,  and  cauld’s  the  clay, 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary. 

O pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I aft  hae  kiss’d  sae  fondly  ! 

And  closed  for  ay,  the  sparkling  glance, 
That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 

And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust, 

That  heart  that  lo’ed  me  dearly  ! 

But  still  within  my  bosom’s  core, 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


AULD  ROB  MORRIS. 

There’s  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  you  glen, 
He’s  the  king  o’  guid  fellows  and  wale  of auld 
men ; [kine. 

He  has  gowd  in  his  coffers,  he  has  owsen  and 
And  ae  bonnie  lassie,  his  darling  and  mine. 

She ’s  fresh  as  the  morning,  the  fairest  in  May ; 
She ’s  sweet  as  the  ev’ning  amang  the  new  hay  ; 
As  blithe  and  as  artless  as  the  lambs  on  the  lea, 
And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  e’e. 

But  oh  ! she ’s  an  heiress,  auld  Robin ’s  a laird. 
And  my  daddie  has  nought  but  a cot-house  and 
yard  ; 

A wooer  like  me  maunna  hope  to  come  speed, 
The  wounds  I must  hide  that  will  soon  be  my 
dead. 

The  day  comes  to  me,  but  delight  brings  me 
nane ; 

The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  is  gane : 
I wander  my  lane  like  a night- troubled  gnaist, 
And  I sigh  as  my  heart  it  would  burst  in  my 
breast. 

O,  had  she  been  but  of  lower  degree, 

I then  might  hae  hop’d  she  wad  smil’d  upon  me  ! 
O,  how  past  descriving  had  then  been  my  bliss, 
As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  express ! 


DUNCAN  GRAY. 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't, 
On  blithe  yule  night,  when  we  were  fou, 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't, 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


65 


Maggie  coost  her  head  fu’  high, 
Look’d  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 

Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Duncan  fleech'd.  and  Duncan  pray’d; 
Ha,  ha,  $c. 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig, 

Ha,  ha,  <£c. 

Duncan  sigh’d  baith  out  and  in, 

Grat  his  een  baith  bleer’t  and  blinT, 
Spak  o’  lowpin  ower  a linn  ; 

Ha,  ha,  $c. 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a tide, 

Ha,  ha,  $-c. 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide, 

Ha,  ha,  (f-c. 

Shall  I,  like  a fool,  quoth  he, 

For  a haughty  hizzie  die  ? 

She  may  gae  to — F ranee  for  me  ! 

Ha,  ha,  <$*c. 

How  it  comes,  let  doctors  tell, 

Ha,  ha,  Sfc. 

Meg  grew  sick — as  he  grew  heal, 

Ha,  ha,  Sfc. 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 

For  relief  a sigh  she  brings ; 

And  O,  her  een.  they  spak  sic  things ; 
Ha,  ha,  <$-c. 

Duncan  was  a lad  o’  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  S^c. 

Maggie's  was  a piteous  case, 

Ha,  ha,  Sfc. 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor’d  his  wrath ; 

Now  they’re  crouse  and  canty  baith, 
Ha,  ha,  $c. 


song’ 

Tune — “I  had  a horse." 

O foortith  cauld,  and  restless  love, 
Ye  wreck  my  peace  between  ye  ; 

Yet  poortith  a’  I could  forgive, 

An’  ’twere  na  for  my  Jeanie. 

O why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  have, 
Life’s  dearest  bands  untwining  t 

Or  why  sae  sweet  a flower  as  love 
Depend  on  Fortune’s  shining  ? 

This  warld’s  wealth  when  I think  on, 
Its  pride,  and  a’  the  lave  o’t ; 

Fie,  ne  on  silly  coward  man, 

That  he  should  be  the  slave  o’t. 

0 why,  <$*c. 

Her  een  sae  bonnie  blue  betray, 

How  she  repays  my  passion ; 

But  prudence  is  her  o’erword  ay, 

She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion. 

O why,  (J-c. 

O wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sic  a lassie  by  him  ? 

O wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sae  in  love  as  I am  ? 

0 why,  fyc. 

How  blest  the  humble  cotter’s  fate ! 
He  woos  his  simple  dearie  ; 


The  sillie  bogles,  wealth  and  state, 
Can  never  make  them  eerie. 

O why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  have, 
Life’s  dearest  bands  untwining  ? 

Or  why  sae  sweet  a flower  as  love, 
Depend  on  Fortune’s  shining  ? 


GALLA  WATER. 

There’s  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes. 
That  wander  thro’  the  blooming  heather  ; 

But  Yarrow  braes,  nor  Ettric  shaws, 

Can  match  the  lads  o’  Galla  water. 

But  there  is  ane,  a secret  ane, 

Aboon  them  a’  I lo’e  him  better; 

And  I’ll  be  his,  and  he’ll  be  mine, 

The  bonnie  lad  o’  Galla  water. 

Altho’  his  daddie  was  nae  laird, 

And  tho’  I hae  nae  meikle  tocher  ; 

Yet  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love, 

We’ll  tent  our  flocks  by  Galla  water. 

It  ne’er  was  wealth,  it  ne’er  was  wealth, 
That  coft  contentment,  peace,  or  pleasure, 

The  bands  and  bliss  o’  mutual  love, 

O that’s  the  chiefest  warld’s  treasure  ! 


LORD  GREGORY. 

O mirk,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour, 

And  loud  the  tempest’s  roar ; 

A waefu’  wanderer  seeks  thy  tow’r, — 
Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door. 

An  exile  frae  her  father’s  ha’, 

And  a’  for  loving  thee  ; 

At  least  some  pity  on  me  shaw, 

If  love  it  may  na  be. 

Lord  Gregory,  mind’st  thou  not  the  grove, 
By  bonnie  Irwine  side, 

Where  first  I own’d  that  virgin-love 
I lang,  lang  had  denied  ? 

How  aften  didst  thou  pledge  and  vow, 
Thou  wad  for  ay  be  mine  ! 

And  my  fond  heart,  itsel  sae  true. 

It  ne’er  mistrusted  thine  ! 

Hard  is  thy  heart.  Lord  Gregory, 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast : 

Thou  dart  of  heaven,  that  flashest  by, 

O wilt  thou  give  me  rest ! 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above, 

Your  willing  victim  see  ! 

But  spare,  and  pardon  my  fause  love, 

His  wrangs  to  heaven  and  me  ! 


MARY  MORISON. 

Tune — Bide  ye  yet.” 

O Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish’d,  the  trysted  hour ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 
That  make  the  miser’s  treasure  poor: 
How  blithly  wad  I bide  the  stoure, 

A weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 

Could  I the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 


66  BURNS’ 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string, 

The  dance  gaed  thro’  the  lighted  ha’, 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I sat,  but  neither  heard  or  saw  : 

Tho’  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  you  the  toast  of  a’  the  town, 

I sigh’d,  and  said,  amang  them  a’, 

“Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.” 

O Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  fault  is  loving  thee  ? 

If  love  for  love  thou  will  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ! 

A thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o’  Mary  Morison. 


WANDERING-  WILLIE. 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie* 

Now  tired  with  wandering,  haud  awa  hame  ; 
Come  to  my  bosom  my  ae  only  dearie,  [same. 
And  tell  me  thou  bring’ st  me  my  Willie  the 

Loud  blew  the  cauld  winter  winds  at  our  parting; 

It  was  na  the  blast  brought  the  tear  to  my  e’e  ; 
Now  welcome  the  simmer,  and  welcome  my 
Willie, 

The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

Ye  hurricanes,  rest  in  the  cave  o’  your  slumbers, 
O how  your  wild  horrors  a lover  alarms! 
Awaken,  ye  breezes,  row  gently,  ye  billows, 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my  arms. 

But  if  he’s  forgotten  his  faithfullest  Nannie, 

O still  flow  between  us,  thou  wide  roaring 
main ; 

May  I never  see  it,  may  I never  trow  it, 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie’s  my  ain  ! 


THE  SAME. 

As  altered  by'Mr.  Erskine  and  Mr.  Thomson. 

'Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 

Here  awa , there  awa,  haud  awa  hame, 

'Come  to  my  bosom  my  ain  only  dearie, 

Tell  me  thou  bring’st  me  my  Willie  the  same. 

Winter-winds  blew  loud  and  caul  at  our  parting, 
Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my  e’e  ; 
Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my  Willie, 
As  simmer  to  nature,  so  Willie  to  me. 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  cave  o’  your  slum- 
bers, 

How  your  dread  howling  a lover  alarms  ! 
Blow  soft,  ye  breezes  ! roll  gently,  ye  billows  ! 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my  arms. 

But  oh,  if  he' s faithless,  and  minds  na  his  Nannie, 
Flow  still  between  us  thou  dark-heaving  main! 
May  I never  see  it,  may  I never  trow  it, 

While  dying,  1 think  that  my  Willie’s  my  ain. 

X)ur  Poet,  with  his  usual  judgment,  adopted  some  of 
these  alterations,  and  rejected  others . The  last 
edition  is  as  follows : 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  haud  awa  hame  ; 


POEMS. 

Come  to  my  bosom  my  ain  only  dearie, 

Tell  me  thou  bring’st  me  my  Willie  the  same. 

Winter  winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our  parting, 
Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my  e’e. 
Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my  Willie, 
The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  cave  of  your  slum- 
bers, 

How  your  dread  howling  a lover  alarms  ! 
Wauken,  ye  breezes,  row  gently,  ye  billows, 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my  arms. 

But  oh!  ifhe’s  faithless,  and  minds  na  his  Nannie, 
Flow  still  between  us  thou  wide-roaring  main; 
May  I never  see  it,  may  I never  trow  it, 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie’s  my  ain. 


OPEN  THE  DOOR  TO  ME,  OH! 

WITH  ALTERATIONS. 

Oh,  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show, 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  oh  ! 

Tho’  thou  hast  been  false,  I’ll  ever  prove  true, 
Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  oh ! 

Cauld  is  the  blast  upon  my  pale  cheek. 

But  caulder  thy  love  for  me,  oh  ! 

The  frost  that  freezes  the  life  at  my  heart, 

Is  nought  to  my  pains  frae  thee,  oh  ! 

The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the  white  wave. 
And  time  is  setting  with  me,  oh  ! 

False  friends,  false  love,  farewell ! for  mair 
I’ll  ne’er  trouble  them,  nor  thee,  oh  ! 

She  has  open’d  the  door,  she  has  open’d  it  wide  ; 

She  sees  his  pale  corse  on  the  plain,  oh ! 

My  true  love,  she  cried,  and  sank  down  by  his 
side, 

Never  to  rise  again,  oh ! — 


JESSIE. 

Tune — “ Bonnie  Dundee.” 

True  hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  o’  the 
Y arrow, 

And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banks  o’  the  Ayr, 
B ut  by  the  sweet  side  o’  the  N ith’s  winding  river, 
Are  lovers  as  faithful,  and  maidens  as  fair : 
To  equal  young  Jessie,  seek  Scotland  all  over  ; 

To  equal  young  Jessie,  you  seek  it  in  vain  ; 
Grace,  beauty,  and  elegance  fetter  her  lover. 
And  maidenly  modesty  fixes  the  chain. 

O,  fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay,  dewy  morning, 
And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  close  ; 

But  in  the  fair  presence  o’  lovely  young  Jessie, 
Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose. 

Love  sits  in  her  smile,  a wizard  ensnaring ; 

Enthron’d  in  her  een  he  delivers  his  law  ; 
And  still  to  her  charms  she  alone  is  a stranger! 
Her  modest  demeanor’s  the  jewel  of  a’. 


WHEN  WILD  WAR’S  DEADLY  BLAST 
WAS  BLAWN. 

Air— “ The  Mill  Mill  O.” 

When  wild  war’s  deadly  blast  wras  blawn, 
And  gentle  peace  returning, 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


67 


Wi’  mony  a sweet  babe  fatherless, 

And  mony  a widow  mourning, 

I left  the  lines  and  tented  field, 

Where  lang  I'd  been  a lodger, 

My  humble  knapsack  a’  my  wealth, 

A poor  and  honest  sodger. 

A leal,  light  heart  -was  in  my  breast, 

My  hand  unstain’d  wi’  plunder; 

And  for  fair  Scotia’s  hame  again, 

I cheery  on  did  wander. 

I thought  upon  the  banks  o’  Coil, 

I thought  upon  my  Nancy, 

I thought  upon  the  witching  smile 
That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 

At  length  I reach’d  the  bonnie  glen, 
Where  early  life  I sported ; 

I pass’d  the  mill,  and  trysting  thorn, 
Where  Nancy  aft  I courted: 

Wha  spied  I but  my  ain  dear  maid, 
Down  by  her  mother’s  dwelling  1 
And  turn’d  me  round  to  hide  the  flood 
That  in  my  een  was  swelling. 

Wi’  alter’d  voice,  quoth  I,  sweet  lass, 
Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn’s  blossom, 

0 ! happy,  happy  may  he  be. 

That’s  dearest  to  thy  bosom  ! 

My  purse  is  light,  I’ve  far  to  gang, 

And  fain  wad  be  thy  lodger  ; 

I’ve  serv’d  my  king  and  country  lang, 
Take  pity  on  a sodger. 

Sae  wistfully  she  gaz’d  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever  : 

Quo’  she,  a sodger  ance  I lo’ed. 

Forget  him  snail  I never : 

Our  humble  cot,  and  hamely  fare, 

Ye  freely  shall  partake  it. 

That  gallant  badge,  the  dear  cockade, 

Y e’re  welcome  for  the  sake  o’t. 

She  gaz’d — she  redden’d  like  a rose— 
Syne  pale  like  ony  lily  ; 

She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried, 

Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  ? 

By  him  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky — 
By  whom  true  love’s  regarded, 

1 am  the  man ; and  thus  may  still 
True  lovers  be  rewarded. 

The  wars  are  o’er,  and  I’m  come  hame, 
And  find  thee  still  true-hearted  ; 

Tho’  poor  in  gear,  we’re  rich  in  love, 
And  mair  we’se  no’er  be  parted. 

Quo’  she,  my  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A mailen  plenish’d  fairly ; 

And  come,  my  faithfu’  sodger  lad, 
Thou’rt  welcome  to  it  dearly  ! 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  main, 
The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor  ; 

But  glory  is  the  sodger’s  prize  ; 

The  sodger’s  wealth  is  honor ; 

The  brave,  poor  sodger  ne’er  despise, 
Nor  count  him  as  a stranger, 
Remember  he’s  his  country’s  stay 
In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


MEG  O’  THE  MILL. 

Air — “ O bonnie  lass,  will  you  lie  in  a barrack?” 

O ken  ye  what  Meg  o’  the  mill  has  gotten  ? 
An’  ken  ye  what  Meg  o’  the  mill  has  gotten  ? 


She  has  gotten  a coof  wi’  a claut  o’  siller. 

And  broken  the  heart  o’  the  barley  miller. 

The  miller  was  strapping,  the  miller  was  ruddy, 
A heart  like  a lord,  and  a hue  like  a lady  : 

The  laird  was  a widdiefu’,  bleerit  knurl 
She’s  left  the  guid  fellow  and  ta’en  the  churl. 

The  miller  he  hecht  her  heart  leal  and  loving : 
The  laird  did  address  her  wi’  matter  mair 
moving, 

A fine  pacing  horse  wi’  a clear  chained  bridle, 
A whip  by  her  side,  and  a bonnie  side-saddle. 

O wea  on  the  siller,  it  is  sae  prevailing ; 

And  wea  on  the  love  that  is  fix’d  on  a mailen ! 
A tocher’s  nae  word  in  a true  lover’s  parle. 

But  gie  me  my  love,  and  a fig  for  the  warl ! 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Liggeram  Cosh.” 

Blithe  hae  I been  on  yon  hill, 

As  the  lambs  before  me  ; 

Careless  ilka  thought  and  free, 

As  the  breeze  flew  o’er  me : 

Now  nae  longer  sport  and  play, 
Mirth  or  sang  can  please  me  ; 

Lesley  is  sae  fair  and  coy, 

Care  and  anguish  seize  me. 

Heavy,  heavy,  is  the  task. 

Hopeless  love  declaring : 

Trembling,  I dow  notcht  but  glow’r, 
Sighing,  dumb,  despairing  ! 

If  she  winna  ease  the  thraws, 

In  my  bosom  swelling  ; 

Underneath  the  grass-green  sod, 
Soon  maun  be  my  dwelling. 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Logan  Water.” 

O Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide. 

That  day  I was  my  Willie’s  bride ; 

And  years  sisnyne  has  o’er  us  run, 

Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 

But  now  thy  flow’ry  banks  appear 
Like  drumlie  winter,  dark  and  drear, 

While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 

Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

Again  the  merry  month  o’  May 
Has  made  our  hills  and  valleys  gay  ; 

The  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bow’rs, 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flow’rs  : 
Blithe  morning  lifts  his  rosy  eye, 

And  ev’ning’s  tears  are  tears  of  joy  : 

My  soul,  delightless,  a’  surveys, 

While  Willie’s  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

Within  von  milk-white  hawthorn  bush, 
Amang  her  nestlings  sits  the  thrush  ; 

Her  faithfu’  mate  will  share  her  toil, 

Or  wi’  his  song  her  care  beguile  ; 

But  I,  wi’  my  sweet  nurslings  here, 

Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  cheer. 

Pass  widow’d  nights  and  joyless  days, 
While  Willie’s  far  frae  Logan  braes  ! 

O wae  upon  you,  men  o’  state, 

That  brethren  rouse  to  deadly  hate  ! 


68 


BURNS’  POEMS 


As  ye  make  mony  a fond  heart  mourn, 
Sae  may  it  on  your  heads  return  ! 

How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy, 

The  widow’s  tears,  the  orphan’s  cry? 
But  soon  may  peace  bring  happy  days, 
And  Willie,  hame  to  Logan  braes  ! 


FRAGMENT, 

IN 

Witherspoon’s  collection 

©F 

SCOTS  SONGS. 

Air — “ Ilughie  Graham.’' 

“ O gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa’, 

And  I mysel  a drop  of  dew, 

Into  her  bonnie  breast  to  fa’ ! 

“ Oh,  there  beyond  expression  blest, 

I’d  feast  on  beauty  a’  the  night ; 

Seal’d  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest, 

Till  fley’d  awa’  by  Phoebus’  light.” 

* O were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 

Wi’  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring ; 

And  I,  a bird  to  shelter  there, 

When  wearied  on  his  little  wing : 

How  I wad  mourn,  when  it  was  torn 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude  ! 

But  I wad  sing  on  wanton  wing, 

When  youthfu’  May  its  bloom  renew’d. 


BONNIE  JEAN. 

There  was  a lass,  and  she  was  fair, 

At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen, 

When  a’  the  fairest  maids  were  met, 

The  fairest  maid  was  bonnie  Jean. 

And  ay  she  wrought  her  mammie’s  wark, 
And  ay  she  sang  sae  merrilie  : 

The  blithest  bird  upon  the  bush 
Had  ne’er  a lighter  heart  than  she. 

But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 
That  bless  the  little  lintwhite’s  nest ; 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flow’rs, 
And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 

Young  Robie  was  the  brawest  lad. 

The  flower  and  pride  o’  a’  the  glen  ; 

And  he  had  owsen,  sheep  and  key, 

And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ten. 

He  gacd  wi’  Jeanie  to  the  tryste, 

He  danc’d  wi’  Jeanie  on  the  down  ; 

And  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist, 

Her  heart  was  tint,  her  peace  was  stown. 

As  in  the  bosom  o’  the  stream, 

The  moon-beam  dwells  at  dewy  e’en  ; 

So  trembling,  pure,  was  tender  love, 
Within  the  breast  o’  bonnie  Jean. 

And  now  she  works  her  mammie’s  wark, 
And  ay  she  sighs  wi’  care  and  pain  ; 

Ye  wist  na  what  her  ail  might  be, 

Or  what  wad  mak  her  weel  again. 

* These  stanzas  were  added  by  Burns. 


But  did  na  Jeanie’s  heart  Ioup  light. 
And  did  na  joy  blink  in  her  e’e, 

As  Robie  tauld  a tale  o’  love, 

Ae  e’enin  on  the  lily  lea? 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 

The  birds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove ; 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  fondly  prest, 

And  whisper’d  thus  his  tale  o’  love  : 

O Jeanie  fair,  I lo’e  thee  dear ; 

O canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me  ! 

Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie’s  cot, 
And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi’  me  ? 

At  barn  or  byre  thou  shalt  na  drudge, 
Or  naething  else  to  trouble  thee ; 

But  stray  amang  the  heather-bells, 
And  tent  the  waving  corn  wi’  me. 

Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do  ? 
She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  na : 

At  length  she  blush’d  a sweet  consent, 
And  love  was  ay  between  them  twa. 


PHILLIS  THE  FAIR. 

Tune — “ Robin  Adair.” 

While  larks  with  little  wings, 
Fann’d  the  pure  air, 

Tasting  the  breathing  spring, 
Forth  I did  fare  : 

Gay  the  sun’s  golden  eye, 

Peep’d  o’er  the  mountains  high  : 
Such  thy  mom ! did  I cry, 

Phillis  the  fair. 

In  each  bird’s  careless  song, 

Glad  did  I share  ; 

While  yon  wild  flow’rs  among, 
Chance  led  me  there : 

Sweet  to  the  opening  day, 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray  ; 
Such  thy  bloom  ! did  I say, 

Phillis  the  fair. 

Down  in  a shady  walk. 

Doves  cooing  were, 

I mark’d  the  cruel  hawk 
Caught  in  a snare  : 

So  kind  may  fortune  be, 

Such  make  his  destiny, 

He  who  would  injure  thee, 

Phillis  the  fair. 


SONG. 

To  the  same  tune. 

Had  I a cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore, 
Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves’  dashing 
There  would  I weep  my  woes,  [roar, 
There  seek  my  last  repose, 

Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close, 

Ne’er  to  wake  more. 

Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare, 

All  thy  fond  plighted  vows — fleeting  as  air ! 

To  thy  new  lover  hie, 

Laugh  o’er  thy  perjury, 

Then  in  thy  bosom  try, 

What  peace  is  there  1 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


69 


SONG. 

Tune — “Allan  Water.” 

By  Allan  stream  I chanc’d  to  rove, 

While  Phoebus  sank  beyond  Bonleddi  ;* 

The  winds  were  whispering  thro’  the  grove, 
The  yellow  corn  was  waving  ready  ; 

I listen’d  to  a lover’s  sang, 

And  thought  on  youthlu’  pleasures  mony  ; 

And  ay  the  wild- wood  echoes  rang— 

O,  dearly  do  I love  thee,  Annie  ! 

O,  happy  be  the  woodbine  bower, 

Nae  nightly  bogle  make  it  eerie  ; 

Nor  ever  sorrow  stain  the  hour, 

The  place  and  time  I met  my  dearie  ! 

Her  head  upon  my  throbbing  breast, 

She,  sinking,  said,  “ I’m  thine  forever  !” 

While  mony  a kiss  the  seal  imprest, 

The  sacred  vow,  we  ne’er  should  sever. 

The  haunt  o’  spring’s  the  primrose  brae, 

The  simmer  joys  the  flocks  to  follow ; 

How  cheery  thro’  her  shortening  day, 

Is  autumn,  in  her  weeds  o’  yellow ; 

But  can  they  melt  the  glowing  heart, 

Or  chain  the  soul  in  speechless  pleasure, 

Or  thro’  each  nerve  the  rapture  dart, 

Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom’s  treasure  ? 


WHISTLE,  AND  I’LL  COME  TO 
YOU,  MY  LAD. 

O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad : 

O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad ; 

Tho’  father  and  mither  and  a’  should  gae  mad, 
O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

But  warily  tent,  when  ye  come  to  court  me, 
And  come  na  unless  the  back-yett  be  a-jee  ; 
Syne  up  the  back-stile,  and  let  nae  body  see, 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin  to  me, 

And  come,  &c. 

0 whistle,  fyc. 

At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene’er  ye  meet  me, 
Gang  by  me  as  tho’  that  ye  car’d  na  a flie  : 

But  steal  me  a blink  o’  your  bonnie  black  e’e, 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  looking  at  me, 

Yet  look,  &c. 

0 whistle,  $-c. 

Ay  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  for  me, 
And  whiles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a wee  ; 
But  court  na  anither,  tho’  jokin  ye  be, 

For  fear  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  me, 

For  fear,  &c. 

0 whistle , fyc. 


SONG. 

Tune — “The  mucking  o’  Geordie’s  byre.” 

Adown  winding  Nith  I did  wander, 

To  mark  the  sweet  flow’rs  as  they  spring  ; 
Adown  winding  Nith  I did  wander, 

Of  Phillis  to  muse  and  to  sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awn  wi ’ your  belles  and  your  beauties, 
They  never  wi ' her  can  compare  ; 
Whoever  has  met  wi ' my  Phillis, 

Has  met  wi ' the  queen  o'  the  fair. 

•A  mountain  west  of  Strath  Allan,  3,009  feet  high. 


The  daisy  amus’d  my  fond  fancy, 

So  artless,  so  simple,  so  wild  ; 

Thou  emblem,  said  I,  o’  my  Phillis, 

For  she  is  simplicity’s  child. 

Awa,  (J-c. 

The  rose-bud ’s  the  blush  o’  my  charmer, 

Her  sweet  balmy  lip  when  ’tis  prest ; 

How  fair  and  how  pure  is  the  lily, 

But  fairer  and  purer  her  breast. 

Awa,  (J-c. 

Yon  knot  of  gay  flowers  in  the  arbor, 

They  ne’er  wi’  my  Phillis  can  vie  : 

Her  breath  is  the  breath  o’  the  woodbine, 

Its  dew-drop  o’  diamond,  her  eye. 

Awa,  $c. 

Her  voice  is  the  song  of  the  morning. 

That  wakes  thro’  the  green-spreading  grove, 

When  Phoebus  peeps  over  the  mountains, 

On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love. 

Awa,  fyc. 

But  beauty  how  frail  and  how  fleeting, 

The  bloom  of  a fire  summer’s  day  ! 

While  worth  in  the  mind  o’  my  Phillis 
Will  flourish  without  a decay. 

Awa,  fyc. 


SONG. 

Am— “ Cauld  Kail.” 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast. 
And  pledge  we  ne’er  shall  sunder  ; 

And  I shall  spurn  as  vilest  dust 
The  warld’s  wealth  and  grandeur. 

And  do  I hear  my  Jeanie  own, 

That  equal  transports  move  her  ? 

I ask  for  dearest  life  alone 
That  I may  live  to  love  her. 

Thus  in  my  arms,  wi’  all  thy  charms, 
I clasp  my  countless  treasure  ; 

I’ll  count  nae  mair  o’  heaven  to  share  ; 
Than  sic  a moment’s  pleasure : 

And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue, 

I swear  I’m  thine  forever  ! 

And  on  thy  lips  I seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I never. 


DAINTY  DAVIE. 

Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi’  flowers. 

To  deck  her  gay,  green  spreading  bowers ; 
And  now  comes  in  my  happy  hours, 

To  wander  wi'  my  Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 

Dainty  Davie,  dainty  Davie, 

There  I'll  spend  the  day  wi'  you, 

My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 

The  crystal  waters  round  us  fa’, 

The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a’, 

The  scented  breezes  round  us  blaw, 

A wandering  wi’  my  Davie. 

Meet  me,  <£c. 


70 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare 
To  steal  upon  her  early  fare, 

Then  thro1  the  dews  I will  repair, 

To  meet  my  faithfu1  Davie. 

Meet  me , $-c. 

When  day,  expiring  in  the  west. 

The  curtain  draws  o’  nature’s  rest, 
I’ll  flee  to  his  arms  I lo’e  best, 

And  that’s  my  ain  dear  Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 
Bonnie  Davie,  dainty  Davie, 
There  I'll  spend  the  day  wi ’ you, 
My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 


SO  NS. 

Tune— “ Oran  Gaoil.” 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive ; 

Thou  goest,  thou  darling  of  my  heart ! 
Sever’d  from  thee,  can  I survive  ? 

But  fate  has  will’d,  and  we  must  part. 
I’ll  often  greet  this  surging  swell, 

Yon  distant  isle  will  often  hail : 

E’en  here  I took  the  last  farewell ; 

There  latest  mark’d  her  vanish’d  sail. 

Along  the  solitary  shore, 

While  flitting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry, 
Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar, 

I’ll  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye : 
Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I’ll  say, 

Where  now  my  Nancy’s  path  may  be  ! 
While  thro’  thy  sweets  she  loves  to  stray, 
O tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me  ? 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Fee  him  Father.” 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  Thou  hast  left 
me  ever,  [me  ever. 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  Thou  hast  left 

Aften  hast  thou  vow’d  that  death,  Only  should 
us  sever ! 

Now  thou’st  left  thy  lass  for  ay — I maun  see 
thee  never,  Jamie, 

I’ll  see  thee  never. 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie,  Thou  hast  me 
forsaken,  [forsaken. 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie,  Thou  hast  me 

Thou  canst  love  anither  jo,  While  my  heart  is 
breaking.  [waken,  Jamie, 

Soon  my  weary  een  I’ll  close — Never  mair  to 
Ne’er  mair  to  waken. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE, 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  min’  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  days  o’  lang  syne  ? 

CHORUS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 
For  auld  lang  syne, 

We'll  tak  a cup  o'  kitidness  yet, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 


We  twa  hae  ran  about  the  braes, 

And  pu’  the  gowans  fine  ; 

But  we’ve  wandered  mony  a weary  foot. 
Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  fy-c. 

We  twa  hae  paidl’t  i’  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin  sun  till  dine  : 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar’d. 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  <$-c. 

And  here’s  a hand,  my  trusty  fier, 

And  gie’s  a hand  o’  thine  ; 

And  we’ll  tak  a right  guid-willie  waught. 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  fyc. 

And  surely  ye’ll  be  your  pint-stowp. 

And  surely  I’ll  be  mine  ; 

And  we’ll  tak  a cup  o’  kindness  yet. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  fyc. 


BANNOCK-BURN. 

ROBERT  BRUCE’S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 

Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  glorious  victory. 

Now’s  the  day,  and  now’s  the  hour ; 

See  the  front  o’  battle  lower ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power, 
Edward  ! chains  and  slavery  ! 

Wha  will  be  a traitor  knave  ? 

Wha  can  fill  a coward’s  grave  ? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a slave  ? 

Traitor ! coward  ! turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  king  and  law, 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa’, 
Caledonian  ! on  wi’  me ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains  ! 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be — shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 

Liberty’s  in  every  blow  ! 

Forward  ! let  us  do,  or  die ! 


FAIR  JENNY. 

Tune — “ Saw  ye  my  father  ?” 

Where  are  the  joys  I have  met  in  the  morning, 
That  danc’d  to  the  lark’s  early  song  ? 

Where  is  the  peace  that  awaited  my  wand’ ring. 
At  evening  the  wild  woods  among  ? 

No  more  a- winding  the  course  of  yon  river. 
And  marking  sweet  fiow’rets  so  fair : 

No  more  I trace  the  light  footsteps  of  pleasure, 
But  sorrow  and  sad  sighing  care. 

Is  it  that  summer’s  forsaken  our  valleys, 

And  grim  surly  winter  is  near  ? 

No,  no,  the  bees  humming  round  the  gay  roses, 
Proclaim  it  the  pride  of  the  year. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


71 


Fain  would  I hide  what  I fear  to  discover. 

Yet  long,  long  too  well  have  I known  : 

All  that  has  caus'd  this  wreck  in  my  bosom, 

Is  Jenny,  fair  Jenny  alone. 

Time  cannot  aid  me,  my  griefs  are  immortal, 
Nor  hope  dare  a comfort  bestow  : 

Come  then,  enamor’d  and  fond  of  my  anguish, 
Enjoyment  I’ll  seek  in  my  wo. 


SONG. 

Tune — “ The  Collier’s  Dochter.” 

Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure 
The  fickle  fair  can  give  thee, 

Is  but  a fairy  treasure, 

Thy  hopes  will  soon  deceive  thee. 

The  billows  on  the  ocean. 

The  breezes  idly  roaming, 

The  clouds'  uncertain  motion, 

They  are  but  types  of  woman. 

O art  thou  not  ashamed, 

To  dote  upon  a feature  ? 

If  man  thou  wouldst  be  named, 
Despise  the  silly  creature. 

Go  find  an  honest  fellow  ; 

Good  claret  set  before  thee  : 

Hold  on  till  thou  art  mellow, 

And  then  to  bed  in  glory. 


SONG. 

Tune — “The  Quaker's  Wife.” 

Thine  am  T,  my  faithful  fair, 
Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy; 

Ev’ry  pulse  alon«;  my  veins, 
Ev’ry  roving  fancy. 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart. 

There  to  throb  and  languish, 

Tho’  despair  had  wrung  its  core, 
That  would  heal  its  anguish. 

Take  away  these  rosy  lips, 

Rich  with  balmy  treasure  : 

Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love, 
Lest  I die  w’ith  pleasure. 

What  is  life,  when  wanting  love? 
Night  without  a morning: 

Love’s  the  cloudless  summer  sun, 
Nature  gay  adorning. 


SONG. 

Tune— “To  Janet.” 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife, 
Nor  longer  idly  rave,  Sir; 

Tho’  I am  your  wedded  wife. 

Yet  I am  not  your  slave,  Sir. 

“ One  of  two  must  still  obey, 

Nancy,  Nancy; 

Is  it  man  or  woman,  say, 

My  spouse,  Nancy  ?” 

If  ’tis  still  the  lordly  word, 

Service  and  obedience ; 


I’ll  desert  my  sov’reign  lord, 

And  so,  good  bye  allegiance ! 

“ Sad  will  I be,  so  bereft, 

Nancy,  Nancy  ; 

Yet  I’ll  try  to  make  a shift, 

My  spouse,  Nancy.” 

My  poor  heart  then  break  it  must, 
My  last  hour  I’m  near  it : 

When  you  lay  me  in  the  dust 

Think,  think  how  you  will  bear  it. 

“ I will  hope  and  trust  in  Heaven, 
Nancy,  Nancy  ; 

Strength  to  bear  it  will  be  given, 

My  spouse,  Nancy.” 

Well,  Sir,  from  the  silent  dead 
Still  I’ll  try  to  daunt  you  ; 

Ever  round  your  midnight  bed 
Horrid  sprites  shall  haunt  you. 

“ I’ll  wed  another  like  my  dear 
Nancy,  Nancy  ; 

Then  all  hell  will  fly  for  fear, 

My  spouse,  Nancy.” 


IT  IS  NA,  JEAN,  THY  BONNIE  FACE. 

These  verses  were  originally  in  English  ; Burns  has 
bestowed  on  them  a Scottish  dress. 

Tune — “The  Maid's  Complaint .” 

It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonnie  face, 

Nor  shape,  that  I admire, 

Although  thy  beauty  and  thy  grace 
Might  weel  awake  desire. 

Something,  in  ilka  part  o’  thee, 

To  praise,  to  love,  I find ; 

But  dear  as  is  thy  form  to  me, 

Still  dearer  is  thy  mind. 

Na  mair  ungen’ rous  wish  I hae, 

( Nor  stronger  in  my  breast, 

Than  if  1 canna  mak  thee  sae, 

At  least  to  see  thee  blest. 

Content  am  I,  if  heaven  shall  give 
But  happiness  to  thee  : 

And  as  wi’  thee  I’d  wish  to  live, 

For  thee  I’d  bear  to  die. 


BANKS  OF  CREE. 

Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower, 
All  underneath  the  birchen  shade ; 
The  village-bell  has  toll’d  the  hour, 

O what  can  stay  my  lovely  maid  ? 

’Tis  not  Maria’s  whispering  call; 

’Tis  but  the  balmy-breathing  gale  ; 
Mixt  with  some  warbler’s  dying  fall, 
The  dewy  star  of  eve  to  hail. 

It  is  Maria’s  voice  I hear  ! 

So  calls  the  woodlark  in  the  grove, 
His  little  faithful  mate  to  cheer, 

At  once  ’tis  music — and  ’tis  love. 

And  art  thou  come  ; and  art  thou  true  ! 

O welcome  dear,  to  love  and  me ! 
And  let  us  all  their  vows  renew, 

Along  the  flowery  banks  of  Cree. 


72 


BURNS’  POEMS 


VERSES  TO  A YOUNG  LADY, 

WITH  A PRESENT  OF  SONGS. 

Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives, 
In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  numbers  join’d, 

Accept  the’  gift  ; tho’  humble  he  who  gives, 
Rich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful  mind. 

So  may  no  ruffian-feeling  in  thy  breast, 
Discordant  jar  thy  bosom-chords  among  ; 

But  peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest, 

Or  love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  song. 

Or  pity’s  notes,  in  luxury  of  tears, 

As  modest  want  the  tale  of  wo  reveals  ; 

While  conscious  virtue  all  the  strain  endears, 
And  heaven-born  piety  her  sanction  seals. 


ON  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 

Tune — “ O’er  the  Hills,”  &c. 

How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 

When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad  ? 

How  can  I the  thought  forego. 

He’s  on  the  seas  to  meet  the  foe  ? 

Let  me  wander,  let  me  rove  ; 

Still  my  heart  is  with  my  love  ; 

Nightly  dreams,  and  thoughts  by  day, 

Are  with  him  that’s  far  away. 

CHORUS. 

On  the  seas  and  far  away, 

On  stormy  seas  and  far  away  : 

Nightly  dreams , and  thoughts  by  day, 

Are  ay  with  him  that's  far  away. 

When  in  summer’s  noon  I faint, 

As  weary  flocks  around  me  pant, 

Haply  in  this  scorching  sun 
My  sailor’s  thund’ring  at  his  gun  ; 

Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy  ! 

Bullets,  spare  my  darling  boy  ! 

Fate,  do  with  me  what  you  may; 

Spare  but  him  that’s  far  away ! 

On  the  seas  fyc. 

At  the  starless  midnight  hour. 

When  winter  rules  with  bondless  pow’r ; 

As  the  storms  the  forests  tear, 

And  thunders  rend  the  howling  air, 
Listening  to  the  doubling  roar, 

Surging  on  the  rocky  shore, 

All  I can — I weep  and  pray, 

For  his  weal  that’s  far  away. 

On  the  seas,  fyc, 

Peace,  thy  olive  wand  extend, 

And  bid  wild  war  his  ravage  end, 

Man  with  brother  man  to  meet, 

And  as  a brother  kindly  greet : 

Then  may  heaven  with  prosp’rous  gales, 

Fill  my  sailor’s  welcome  sails, 

To  my  arms  their  charge  convey, 

My  dear  lad  that’s  far  away. 

On  the  seas,  <$-c. 


SONG. 

Tune— “ Ca’  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes.” 
CHORUS. 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 

Ca'  them  whare  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  whare  the  burnie  rows, 

Mi/  bonnie  dearie. 


Hark,  the  mavis  evening  song 
Sounding  Clouden’s  woods  amang  ; 
Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

Ca ’ the,  4*c. 

We’ll  gae  down  by  Clouden  side, 
Thro’  the  hazels  spreading  wide. 

O’er  the  waves,  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 

Ca'  the,  4*c. 

Yonder  Clouden’s  silent  towers. 
Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours, 
O’er  the  dewy  bending  flow’rs, 
Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 

Ca ’ the,  $-c. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear ; 
Thou’rt  to  love  and  heav’n  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

Ca'  the,  $-c. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart ; 

I can  die — but  canna  part, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

Ca'  the , 4*c. 


SHE  SAYS  SHE  LO’ES  ME  BEST 
OF  A’. 

Tune— “ Onagh’s  Water-fall.” 

Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, 

Her  eyebrows  of  a darker  hue, 

Bewitchingly  o’er-arching 

Twa  laughing  een  o’  bonnie  blue. 

Her  smiling  sae  wiling, 

Wad  make  a wretch  forget  his  wo ; 

What  pleasure,  what  treasure, 

Unto  these  rosy  lips  to  grow  ! 

Such  was  my  Chloris’  bonnie  face, 

When  first  her  bonnie  face  I saw  ; 

And  ay  my  Chloris’  dearest  charm, 

She  says  she  lo’es  me  best  of  a’. 

Like  harmony  her  motion  ; 

Her  pretty  ankle  is  a spy 

Betraying  fair  proportion, 

Wad  mak  a saint  forget  the  sky. 

Sae  warming,  sae  charming, 

Her  faultless  form,  and  gracefu’  air ; 

Ilk  feature — auld  Nature 
Declar’d  that  she  could  do  nae  mair  : 

Her’s  are  the  willing  chains  o’  love, 

By  conquering  beauty’s  sovereign  law  ; 

And  ay  my  Chloris’  dearest  charm, 

She  says  she  lo’s  me  best  of  a’. 

Let  others  love  the  city, 

And  gaudy  show  at  sunny  noon  ; 

Gie  me  the  lonely  valley. 

The  dewy  eve,  and  rising  moon  ; 

Fair  beaming,  and  streaming, 

Her  silver  light  the  boughs  amang; 

While  falling,  recalling, 

The  amorous  thrush  concludes  her  sang : 

There,  dearest  Chloris,  wilt  thou  rove 
By  wimpling  burn  and  leafy  shaw, 

And  hear  my  vows  o’  truth  and  love, 

And  say  thou  lo’es  me  best  of  a’  1 


BURNS’ 

SAW  YE  MY  PHELY? 

( Quasi  dicat  Phillis.) 

Tune — “ When  she  cam  ben  she  hobbit.” 

0 saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 

O saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Fhely  ? 

She’s  down  i’  the  grove,  she’s  wi’  a new  love, 
She  winna  come  hame  to  her  Willy. 

What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 

What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 

She  lets  thee  to  wit  that  she  has  thee  forgot, 
And  forever  disowns  thee  her  Willy. 

O had  I ne’er  seen  thee,  my  Phely  ! 

O had  I ne’er  seen  thee,  my  Phely  ! 

As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou’s  fair, 
Thot^s  broken  the  heart  o’  thy  Willy. 


SONG. 

Tune— “ Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen.” 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night, 
When  I am  frae  my  dearie ; 

I restless  lie  frae  e’en  to  morn, 

Tho’  I were  ne’er  sae  weary. 

CHORUS. 

For  oh,  her  lanely  nights  are  lang; 

And  oh,  her  dreams  are  eerie; 
And  oh,  her  widow'd  heart  is  sair , 
That's  absent  frae  her  dearie. 

When  I think  on  the  lightsome  days 
I spent  wi’  thee,  my  dearie ; 

And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar, 
How  can  I be  but  eerie  ? 

For  oh,  $c. 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours  ; 

The  joyless  day  how  dreary  ! 

It  was  nae  sae  ye  glinted  by, 

When  I was  wr  my  dearie. 

For  oh,  <f-c. 


SONG. 

Tune— Duncan  Gray.” 

Let  not  woman  e’er  complain, 

Of  inconstancy  in  love  ; 

Let  not  woman  e’er  complain, 

Fickle  man  is  apt  to  rove : 

Look  abroad  through  Nature’s  range, 
Nature’s  mighty  law  is  change  ; 

Ladies,  would  it  not  be  strange, 

Man  should  then  a monster  prove  ? 

Mark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies ; 
Ocean’s  ebb,  and  ocean’s  flow  : 

Sun  and  moon  but  set  to  rise, 

Round  and  round  the  seasons  go. 

Why  then  ask  of  silly  man, 

To  oppose  great  Nature’s  plan  ? 

We’ll  be  constant  when  we  can — 
You  can  be  no  more,  you  know. 


POEMS.  73 

THE  LOVER’S  MORNING  SALUTE 
TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Tune — “Deil  tak  the  Wars.” 

Sleep’st  thou,  or  wak’st  thou,  fairest  creature ; 

Rosy  morn  now  lifts  his  eye, 

Numbering  ilka  bud  which  Nature 
Waters  wi’  the  tears  o’  joy  : 

Now  thro’  the  leafy  woods, 

And  by  the  reeking  floods, 

Wild  Nature’s  tenants,  freely,  gladly  stray  ; 
The  lintwhite  in  his  bower 
Chants  o’er  the  breathing  flower ; 

The  lav’rock  to  the  sky 
Ascends  wi’  sangs  o’  joy, 

While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the  day. 

Phoebus  gilding  the  brow  o’  morning, 

Banishes  ilk  darksome  shade, 

Nature  gladdening  and  adorning; 

Such  to  me,  my  lovely  maid. 

When  absent  frae  my  fair, 

The  murky  shades  o’  care 
With  starless  gloom  o’ercast  my  sullen  sky ; 
But  when,  in  beauty’s  light, 

She  meets  my  ravish’d  sight, 

When  through  my  very  heart 
Her  beaming  glories  dart ; 

’Tis  then  I wake  to  life,  to  light,  and  joy. 


THE  AULD  MAN. 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green, 

The  woods  rejoic’d  the  day, 

Thro’  gentle  showers  the  laughing  flowers 
In  double  pride  were  gay  : 

But  now  our  joys  are  fled, 

On  winter  blasts  awa  ! 

Yet  maiden  May,  in  rich  array, 

Again  shall  bring  them  a’. 

But  my  white  pow,  nae  kindly  thowe 
Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  age  ; 

My  trunk  of  eild,  but  buss  or  bield, 

Sinks  in  time’s  wintry  rage. 

Oh,  age  has  weary  days, 

And  nights  o’  sleepless  pain  ! 

Thou  golden  time  o’  youthfu’  prime, 

Why  com’st  thou  not  again ! 


SONG. 

Tune— “ My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground.” 

My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves, 
The  primrose  banks  how  fair  : 

The  balmy  gales  awake  the  flowers, 

And  wave  thy  flaxen  hair.  ✓ 

The  lav’rock  shuns  the  palace  gay, 

And  o’er  the  cottage  sings  ; 

For  Nature  smiles  as  sweet,  I ween, 

To  shepherds  as  to  kings. 

Let  minstrels  sweep  the  skillfu’  string, 

In  lordly  lighted  ha1 : 

The  shepherd  stops  his  simple  reed, 
Blithe,  in  the  birken  shaw. 

The  princely  revel  may  survey 
Our  rustic  dance  wi’  scorn  ; 


74  BURNS’ 

But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  ours, 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn? 

The  shepherd,  in  the  flowery  glen, 

In  shepherd’s  phrase  will  woo  : 

The  courtier  tell’s  a finer  tale, 

But  is  his  heart  as  true  ? 

These  wild -wood  flowers  I’ve  pu’d,  to  deck 
That  spotless  breast  o’  thine ; 

The  courtiers’  gems  may  witness  love — 

But  ’tis  na  love  like  mine. 


SONG, 

ALTERED  FROM  AN  OLD  ENGLISH  ONE. 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 
When  all  the  flow’rs  w-ere  fresh  and  gay, 
One  morning,  by  the  break  of  day, 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe  ; 

From  peaceful  slumber  she  arose, 

Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose, 

And  o’er  the  flowery  mead  she  goes, 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn , 

Youthful  Chloe , charming  Chloe , 
Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn , 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

The  feather’d  people,  you  might  see 
Perch’d  all  around  on  every  tree, 

In  notes  of  sweetest  melody, 

They  hail  the  charming  Chloe  ; 

Till,  painting  gay  the  eastern  skies, 

The  glorious  sun  began  to  rise, 
Out-rival’d  by  the  radiant  eyes 
Of  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

Lovely  was  she,  (J-c. 


LASSIE  WI’  THE  LINT-WHITE  LOCKS. 
Tune — “ Rothemurchie’s  Rant.” 

CHORUS. 

Lassie  wV  the  lint-white  locks, 

Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie, 

Wilt  thou  wi'  me  tent  the  flocks, 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  O ? 

Now  nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea, 

And  a’  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee ; 

O wilt  thou  share  its  joys  wi’  me, 

And  say  thou’lt  be  my  dearie.  0 ? 

Lassie,  wi',  fyc. 

And  when  the  welcome  simmer-shower, 

Has  cheer’d  ilk  drooping  little  flower. 

We’ll  to  the  breathing  woodbine  bower, 

At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie,  O. 

Lassie  wi',  <$-c. 

When  Cynthia  lights,  wi’  silver  ray, 

The  weary  shearer’s  hameward  w'ay  ; 

Thro’  yellow  waving  fields  we’ll  stray, 

And  talk  o’  love,  my  dearie,  O. 

Lassie  wi',  <$*e. 

And  when  the  howling  wintry  blast 
Disturbs  my  lassie’s  midnight  rest  ; 


POEMS. 

Enclasped  to  my  faithfu’  breast, 

I’ll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie,  O. 

Lassie  wi.'  the  lint-white  locks, 
Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie, 

0 wilt  thou  wi ’ me  tent  the  flocks, 
W lit  thou  be  my  dearie,  0 ? 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Nancy’s  to  the  Greenwood,”  &c. 

Farewell  thou  stream,  that  winding  flows 
Around  Eliza’s  dwelling  ! 

0 mem’ry  ! spare  the  cruel  throes 
Within  my  bosom  swelling  : 

Condemn’d  to  drag  a hopeless  chain, 

And  yet  in  secret  languish, 

To  feel  afire  in  every  vein, 

Nor  dare  disclose  my  anguish. 

Love’s  veriest  wretch,  unseen,  unknown, 

I fain  my  griefs  would  cover ; 

The  bursting  sigh,  th’  unweeting  groan, 
Betray  the  hapless  lover. 

1 know  thou  doom’st  me  to  despair, 

Nor  wilt,  nor  canst  relieve  me  ; 

But  oh,  Eliza,  hear  one  prayer, 

For  pity’s  sake,  forgive  me. 

The  music  of  thy  voice  I heard, 

Nor  wist  while  it  enslav’d  me  ; 

I saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  fear’d, 

Till  fears  no  more  had  sav’d  me  ; 

Th’  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast, 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing  ; 

’Mid  circling  horrors  sinks  at  last 
In  overwhelming  ruin. 


DUETT. 

Tune — “ The  Sow’s  Tail.” 

he — O Philly,  happy  be  that  day 

When  roving  through  the  gather’d  hay, 
My  youthfu’  heart  was  stown  away, 

And  by  thy  charms,  my  Philly. 

she — O Willy,  ay  I bless  the  grove 

Where  first  I own’d  my  maiden  love, 
Whilst  thou  did  pledge  the  Powers  above 
To  be  my  ain  dear  Willy. 

he — As  songsters  of  the  early  year 
Are  ilka  day  mair  sweet  to  hear, 

So  ilka  day  to  me  mair  dear 
And  charming  is  my  Philly. 

she — As  on  the  brier  the  budding  rose 

Still  richer  breathes,  and  fairer  blows, 
So  in  my  tender  bosom  grows 
The  love  I bear  my  Willy. 

he — The  milder  sun  and  bluer  sky, 

That  crown  my  harvest  cares  wi’joy, 
Were  ne’er  sae  welcome  to  my  eye 
As  is  a sight  o’  Philly. 

she — The  little  swallow’s  wanton  wing, 

Tho’  wafting  o’er  the  flowery  spring, 
Did  ne’er  to  me  sic  tidings  bring, 

As  meeting  o’  my  Willy. 

he — The  bee  that  thro’  the  sunny  hour 
Sips  nectar  in  the  opening  flower, 


BURNS’ 

Compar'd  wi’  my  delight  is  poor, 

Upon  the  lips  o’  Philly. 
she — The  woodbine  in  the  dewy  weet, 

When  evening  shades  in  silence  meet, 

Is  notcht  sae  fragrant  or  sae  sweet 
As  is  a kiss  o’  Willy. 

HE — Let  fortune’s  wheel  at  random  rin, 

And  fools  may  tine,  and  knaves  may  win; 
My  thoughts  are  a’  bound  up  in  ane, 
And  that’s  my  ain  dear  Philly. 
she — What's  a1  the  joys  that  gowd  can  gie  ! 

I care  nae  wealth  a single  flie ; 

The  lad  I love ’s  the  lad  for  me, 

And  that’s  my  ain  dear  Willy. 


SONG. 

Tcxe — “ Lumps  o’  Pudding.” 

Contented  wi’  little,  and  cantie  wi’  mair, 
Whene'er  I forgather  wi’  sorrow  and  care, 

I gie  them  a skelp,  as  they're  creepin  alang, 
Wi’a  cog  o’  guid  swats, and  an  auld  Scottish  sang. 
I whyles  claw  the  elbow  o’  troublesome 
thought ; 

But  man  is  a soger,  and  life  is  a faught : 

My  mirth  and  guid  humor  are  coin  in  my  pouch, 
And  my  freedom’s  my  lairdship  nae  monarch 
dare  touch. 

A towmondo’  trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa’, 

A night  o’  guid  fellowship  sowthers  it  a’ : 
When  at  the  blithe  end  o’  our  journey  at  last, 
Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o’  the  road  he  has  past? 

Blind  chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoyte  on  her 
way ; 

Be’t  to  me,  be’t  frae  me,  e’en  let  the  jade  gae  : 
Come  ease,  or  come  travail ; come  pleasure, 
or  pain,  [again !” 

My  warst  word  is — “ Welcome,  and  welcome 


CANST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS, 
MY  KATY? 

Tune — “ Roy’s  Wife.” 

CHORUS. 

Const  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Const  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Well  tlvm  know'st  my  aching  heart, 

And  const  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity  ? 
Is  this  thy  plighted,  fond  regard, 

Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katy  ? 

Is  this  thy  faithful  swain’s  reward — 

An  aching,  broken  heart,  My  Katy  ? 

Const  thou,  (J-c. 

Farewell ! and  ne’er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katy  ! 

Thou  may’st  find  those  will  love  thee  dear— 
But  not  a love  like  mine,  my  Katy. 

Const  thou , 4*c. 


MY  NANNIE’S  AWA. 

Tune — “ There’ll  never  be  peace,”  Sec. 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  Nature  arrays, 
And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o’er  the 
braes, 


POEMS.  75 

While  birds  warble  welcome  in  ilka  green 
shnw  ; 

But  to  me  it’s  delightless — my  Nannie’s  awa. 

The  snaw-drap  and  primrose  our  woodlands 
adorn, 

And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet  o’  the  morn  ; 
They  pain  my  sad  bosom,  so  sweetly  they  blaw, 
They  mind  me  o’  Nannie — and  Nannie’s  awa. 

Thou  lav’rock  that  springs  frae  the  dews  of  the 
lawn.  [dawn, 

The  shepherd  to  warn  o’  the  gray-breaking 
And  thou,  mellow  mavis,  that  hails  the  night-fa’, 
Give  over  for  pity — my  Nannie’s  awa. 

Come,  autumn,  sae  pensive,  in  yellow  and  gray, 
And  soothe  me  wi’  tidings  o’  Nature's  decay  : 
The  dark,  dreary  winter,  and  wild-driving  snaw, 
Alane  can  delight  me — now  Nannie’s  awa. 


FOR  A’  THAT,  AND  A’  THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a’  that ; 

The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Our  toil’s  obscure,  and  a’  that, 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp, 

The  man’s  the  gowd  for  a’  that. 

What  tho’  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear' hodden  gray,  and  a’  that ; 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine* 
A man’s  a man  for  a’  that ; 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a’  that ; 

The  honest  man,  though  e’er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o’  men  for  a’  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca’d  a lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a’  that ; 

Tho’  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He’s  but  a coof  for  a’  that : 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a’  that, 

The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a’  that. 

A prince  can  mak  a belled  knight, 

A marquis,  duke,  and  a’  that ; 

But  an  honest  man’s  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a’  that, 

The  pith  o’  sense,  and  pride  o’  worth, 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a’  that. 

Then  let  us  pray,  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a’  that, 

That  sense  and  worth,  o’er  a’  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a’  that ; 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

It’s  coming  yet,  for  a’  that, 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o’er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a’  that. 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Craigie-burn  Wood.” 
Sweet  fa’s  the  eve  on  Craigie-burn, 
And  blithe  awakes  the  morrow, 


76  BURNS’ 

But  a1  the  pride  o’  spring’s  return 
Can  yield  me  nocht  but  sorrow. 

I see  the  flow’rs  and  spreading  trees, 

I hear  the  wild  birds  singing ; 

But  what  a weary  wight  can  please, 

And  care  hi3  bosom  wringing  ? 

Fain,  fain  would  I my  grief  impart, 

Y et  dare  na  for  your  anger ; 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 

If  I conceal  it  langer. 

If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me, 

If  thou  shalt  love  anither, 

When  yon  green  leaves  fade  frae  the  tree, 
Around  my  grave  they’ll  wither. 

SONG. 

Tune — “ Let  me  in  this  ae  night.” 

O lassie,  art  thou  sleeping  yet  ? 

Or  art  thou  wakin-,  I would  wit? 

For  love  has  bound  me  hand  and  foot, 

And  I would  fain  be  in,  jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let  me  in  this  ae  night , 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night  ; 

For  pity's  sake  this  night , 

0 rise  and  let  me  in,  jo. 

Thou  hears’t  the  winter-wind  and  weet, 

Nae  star  blinks  thro’  the  driving  sleet; 

Tak  pity  on  my  weary  feet, 

And  shield  me  frae  the  rain,  jo. 

0 let  me  in,  <|*c. 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blaws, 

Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa’s ; 

The  cauldness  o’  thy  heart’s  the  cause 
Of  a’  my  grief  and  pain,  jo. 

0 let  me  in,  $c. 


HER  ANSWER. 

O tell  na  me  o’  wind  and  rain, 

Upbraid  na  me  wi’  cauld  disdain  1 
Gae  back  the  gate  ye  cam  again, 

I winna  let  you  in,  jo. 

CHORUS. 

I tell  you  now  this  ae  night. 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ; 

And  ance  for  a ' this  ae  night, 

I winna  let  you  in,  jo. 

The  snellest  blast,  at  mirkest  hours, 

That  round  the  pathless  wand’rer  pours, 

Is  nocht  to  what  poor  she  endures, 

That’s  trusted  faithless  man,  jo, 

1 tell  you  now,  fy-c. 

The  sweetest  flower  that  deck’d  the  mead, 
Now  trodden  like  the  vilest  weed  ; 

Let  simple  maid  the  lesson  read, 

The  weird  may  be  her  ain,  jo, 

I tell  you  now,  fyc. 

The  bird  that  charm’d  his  summer-day, 

Is  now  the  cruel  fowler’s  prey  ; 


POEMS. 

Let  witless,  trusting  woman  say, 
How  aft  her  fate’s  the  same,  jo, 

I tell  you  now,  <$•<:. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  WOOD-LARK. 
Tune — “ Where’ll  bonnie  Ann  lie?”  Or,  “ Loch- 
Eroch  Side.” 

O stay,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay, 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray, 

A hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay, 

Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 

Again,  again  that  tender  part, 

That  I may  catch  thy  melting  art ; 

For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart, 

Wha  kills  me  wi’  disdaining. 

Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind, 

And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 

Oh,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join’d, 

Sic  notes  o’  wo  could  wauken. 

Thou  tells  o’  never-ending  care  ; 

O’  speechless  grief,  and  dark  despair ; 

For  pity’s  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair! 

Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  ! 


ON  CHLORIS  BEING  ILL. 
Tune — “Ay  wakin  O.” 

CHORUS. 

Long,  long  the  night, 

Heavy  comes  the  morrow , 

While  my  soul's  delight 
Is  on  her  bed  of  sorrow. 

Can  I cease  to  care  ? 

Can  I cease  to  languish, 

While  my  darling  fair 

Is  on  the  couch  of  anguish  ? 
Long,  <£c. 

Every  hope  is  fled, 

Every  fear  is  terror ; 

Slumber  even  I dread, 

Every  dream  is  horror. 

Long , (J-c. 

Hear  me,  Powr’s  divine  ! 

Oh,  in  pity  hear  me ! 

Take  aught  else  of  mine, 

But  my  Chloris  spare  me  ! 

Long,  <$-c. 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Humors  of  Glen.” 

Their  groves  o’  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 
reckon,  [perfume, 

Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt  the 

F ar  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o’  green  breckan, 
Wi’  the  burn  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow 
broom. 

Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 
Where  the  blue-bell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly 
unseen : 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


77 


For  there,  lightly  tripping  among  the  wild 
flowers, 

A-listening  the  linnet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean. 

Tho’  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay  sunny  val- 
leys, 

And  cauld  Caledonia’s  blast  on  the  wave  ; 

Their  sweet-scented  woodlands  that  skirt  the 
proud  palace,  [slave ! 

What  are  they  ? The  haunt  of  the  tyrant  and 

The  slave's  spicy  forests,  and  gold-bubbling 
fountains, 

The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi’  disdain  ; 

He  wanders  ae  free  as  the  winds  of  his  moun- 
tains. [Jean. 

Save  love’s  wiWing  fetters,  the  chains  o’  his 

SONG. 

Tune— “Laddie,  lie  near  me.” 

’Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  e’e  was  my  ruin ; 

Fair  tho’  she  be,  that  was  ne’er  my  undoing  : 

'Twas  the  dear  smile  when  naebody  did  mind 
us,  [kindness. 

’Twas  the  bewitching,  sweet,  stown  glance  o’ 

Sair  do  I fear  that  to  hope  is  denied  me, 

Sair  do  I fear  that  despair  maun  abide  me  ; 

But  tho’  fell  fortune  should  fate  us  to  sever, 

Queen  shall  she  be  in  my  bosom  forever. 

Mary,  I’m  thine  wi’  a passion  sincerest, 

And  thou  hast  plighted  me  love  o’  the  dearest, 

And  thou’rt  the  angel  that  never  can  alter, 

Sooner  the  sun  in  his  motion  would  falter. 


ALTERED  FROM  AN  OLD  ENGLISH 
SONG. 

Tune — “ John  Anderson  my  jo.” 

How  cruel  are  the  parents, 

Who  riches  only  prize, 

And  to  the  wealthy  booby, 

Poor  woman  sacrifice. 

Meanwhile  the  hapless  daughter, 

Has  but  a choice  of  strife  ; 

To  shun  a tyrant  father’s  hate, 

Become  a wretched  wife. 

The  ravening  hawk  pursuing, 

The  trembling  dove  thus  flies, 

To  shun  impending  ruin, 

A while  her  pinions  tries; 

Till  of  escape  despairing, 

No  shelter  or  retreat, 

She  trusts  the  ruthless  falconer, 

And  drops  beneath  his  feet. 


SONG. 

TuNE—“Deil  tak  the  Wars.” 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion, 
Round  the  weahhy,  titled  bride  : 
But  when  compar’d  with  real  passion, 
Poor  is  all  that  princely  pride. 
What  are  the  showy  treasures  ? 
What  are  the  noisy  pleasures  ? 


The  gay,  gaudy  glare  of  vanity  and  art : 

The  polish’d  jewel’s  blaze 
May  draw  the  wond’ring  gaze, 

And  courtly  grandeur  bright 
The  fancy  may  delight, 

But  never,  never  can  come  near  the  heart. 

But  did  you  see  my  dearest  Chloris, 

In  simplicity’s  array  ; 

Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  day. 

Lovely  as  yonder  sweet  opening  flower  is, 
O then,  the  heart  alarming, 

And  all  resistless  charming, 

In  Love’s  delightful  fetters  she  chains  the 
willing  soul ! 

Ambition  would  disown 
The  world’s  imperial  crown ; 

Even  Avarice  would  deny 
His  worship’d  deity. 

And  feel  thro’  every  vein  Love’s  raptures  roll. 


SONG. 

“ Tune — This  is  no  my  ain  House.” 
CHORUS. 

0 this  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 

Fair  tho ’ the  lassie  be  ; 

0 weel  ken  I my  ain  lassie, 

Kind  love  is  in  her  e’e. 

I see  a form,  I see  a face, 

Ye  weel  may  wi’  the  fairest  place  ; 

It  wants,  to  me,  the  witching  grace, 

The  kind  love  that’s  in  her  e’e. 

O this  is  no,  <f-e. 

She’s  bonnie,  blooming,  straight,  and  tall, 
And  lang  has  had  my  heart  in  thrall ; 

And  ay  it  charms  my  very  saul, 

The  kind  love  that’s  in  her  e’e. 

0 this  is  no,  $-c. 

A thief  sae  pawkie  is  my  Jean, 

To  steal  a blink,  by  a’  unseen  ; 

But  gleg  as  light  are  lovers’  een, 

When  kind  love  is  in  the  e’e. 

0 this  is  no,  $c. 

It  may  escape  the  courtly  sparks, 

It  may  escape  the  learned  clerks  ; 

But  weel  the  watching  lover  marks 
The  kind  love  that’s  in  her  e’e. 

0 this  is  no,  <$-c. 


TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM 

SCOTTISH  SONG. 

Now  spring  has  clad  the  groves  in  green, 
And  strew’d  the  lea  wi’  flowers  ; 

The  furrow’d,  waving  corn  is  seen 
Rejoice  in  fostering  showers  ; 

While  ilka  thing  in  nature  join 
Their  sorrows  to  forego, 

O why  thus  all  alone  are  mine 
The  weary  steps  of  wo  ! 

The  trout  within  yon  wimplin  burn 
Glides  swift,  a silver  dart, 

And  safe  beneath  the  shady  thorn 
Defies  the  angler’s  art : 


78  BURNS* 

My  life  was  ance  that  careless  stream, 

That  wanton  trout  was  I ; 

But  love,  wi1  unrelenting  beam, 

Has  scorch’d  my  fountains  dry. 

The  little  flow’ret’s  peaceful  lot, 

In  yonder  cliff  that  grows, 

Which,  save  the  linnet’s  flight,  I wot, 

Nae  ruder  visit  knows. 

Was  mine  ; till  love  has  o'er  me  past, 

And  blighted  a’  my  bloom, 

And  now  beneath  the  withering  blast 
My  youth  and  joys  consume. 

The  waken’d  lav’rock,  warbling,  springs, 
And  climbs  the  early  sky, 

Winnowing  blithe  her  dewy  wings 
In  morning’s  rosy  eye  ; 

As  little  reckt  I sorrow’s  power, 

Until  the  flowery  snare 
O’  witching  love,  in  luckless  hour, 

Made  me  the  thrall  o’  care. 

O had  my  fate  been  Greenland  snows, 

Or  Afric’s  burning  zone, 

Wi’  man  and  nature  leagu’d  my  foes, 

So  Peggy  ne’er  I’d  known  ? 

The  wretch  whase  doom  is,  “hope  nae  mair,” 
What  tongue  his  woes  can  tell ! 

Within  whase  bosom,  save  despair, 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell. 


SCOTTISH  SONG. 

O bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier, 

That  blooms  sae  far  frae  haunt  o’  man ; 

And  bonnie  she,  and  ah,  how  dear ! 

It  shaded  frae  the  e’enin  sun. 

Yon  rosebuds  in  the  morning  dew, 

How  pure  amang  the  leaves  sae  green  ; 

But  purer  was  the  lover’s  vow 

They  witness’d  in  their  shade  yestreen. 

All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower, 

That  crimson  rose,  how  sw'eet  and  fair  ! 

But  love  is  far  a sweeter  flower, 

Amid  life’s  thorny  path  o’  care. 

The  pathless  wild,  and  wimpling  burn, 
Wi’  Chloris  in  my  arms,  be  mine  ; 

And  I,  the  world,  nor  wish,  nor  scorn, 

Its  joys  and  griefs  alike  resign. 


WRITTEN  on  a blank  leaf  of  a copy  of  his 
Poems  presented  to  a Lady , whom  he  had  often 
celebrated  under  the  name  of  Chloris. 

’Tis  friendship’s  pledge,  my  young,  fair  friend, 
Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse, 

Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 
The  moralizing  muse. 

Since  thou,  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms, 

Must  bid  the  world  adieu, 

(A  world  ’gainst  peace  in  constant  arms) 

To  join  the  friendly  few  : 

Since  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o’ercast, 

Chill  came  the  tempest’s  lower : 

(And  ne’er  misfortune’s  eastern  blast 
Did  nip  a fairer  flower.) 


POEMS. 

Since  life’s  gay  scenes  must  charm  no  more, 
Still  much  is  left  behind  ; 

Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store, 

The  comforts  of  the  mind  ! 

Thine  is  the  self- approving  glow, 

On  conscious  honor’s  part ; 

And,  dearest  gift  of  heaven  below, 

Thine  friendship’s  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refin’d  of  sense  and  taste, 

With  every  muse  to  rove  ; 

And  doubly  were  the  poet  blest,  9 
These  joys  could  he  improve. 


ENGLISH  SONG. 

Tune — “ Let  me  in  this  ae  night.” 

Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 
Far,  far  from  thee,  I wander  here, 

Far,  far  from  thee,  the  fate  severe 
At  which  I most  repine,  love. 

CHORUS. 

0 wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me, 

But  near,  near,  near  me  ; 

How  kindly  thou  wouldst  cheer  me, 
And  mingle  sighs  with  mine,  love. 

Around  me  scowls  a wintry  sky, 

That  blasts  each  bud  of  hope  and  joy ; 
And  shelter,  shade,  nor  home  have  I, 
Save  in  those  arms  of  thine,  love. 

0 wert,  fifC. 

Cold,  alter’d  friendship’s  cruel  part, 

To  poison  fortune’s  ruthless  dart — 

Let  me  not  break  thy  faithful  heart, 
And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love. 

0 wert,  $c. 

But  dreary  tho’  the  moments  fleet, 

O let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet ! 
That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 
Can  on  thy  Chloris  shine,  love. 

0 wert  fyc. 


SCOTTISH  BALLAD. 

Tune — 54  The  Lothian  Lassie.” 

Last  May  a braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang 
glen, 

And  sair  wi’  his  love  he  did  deave  me ; 

I said  there  was  naething  I hated  like  men,  [me, 
The  deuce  gae  wi’m,  to  believe  me,  believe 
The  deuce  gae  wi’m,  to  believe  me. 

He  spak  o’  the  darts  in  my  bonnie  black  e’en, 
And  vow’d  for  my  love  he  was  dying ; 

I said  he  might  die  when  he  liked,  for  Jean, 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying,  for  lying, 

The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying ! 

A weel-stocked  mailen,  himsel  for  the  laird, 
And  marriage  aft-hand,  were  his  proffers  : 

I never  loot  on  that  I kenn’d  it,  or  car’d,  [offers, 
But  thought  I might  hae  waur  offers,  waur 
But  thought  I might  hae  waur  offers. 

But  what  wad  ye  think  ? in  a fortnight  or  less, 
The  deil  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her  ! 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


79 


He  up  the  lang  loan  to  my  black  cousin  Bess, 
Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  ! I could  bear  her, 
could  bear  her, 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  ! I could  bear  her. 

But  a1  the  niest  week,  as  T fretted  wi’  care, 

I gaed  to  the  tryste  o’  Dalgarnock, 

And  wha  but  my  tine  fickle  lover  was  there, 

I glowr'd  as  I’d  seen  a warlock,  a warlock, 

I glowr’d  as  I’d  seen  a warlock. 

But  owre  my  left  shouther  I gae  him  a blink, 
Lest  neebors  might  say  I was  saucy  ; 

My  wooer  he  caper'd  as  he’d  been  in  drink, 
And  vow’d  I was  his  dear  lassie,  dear  lassie, 
And  vow’d  I was  his  dear  lassie. 

I spier’d  for  my  cousin  fu’  couthy  and  sweet, 
Gin  she  had  recover’d  her  hearin,  [feet, 

And  how  her  new  shoon  fit  her  auld  shachl’t 
But,  heavens!  how  he  fell  a swearin,  a swearin, 
But  heavens ! how  he  fell  a swearin. 

He  begged,  for  Gudesake  ! I wad  be  his  wife, 
Or  else  I wad  kill  him  wi’  sorrow  : 

So  e'en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  in  life,  [row, 
I think  I maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to-rnor- 
I think  I maun  wed  him  to-morrow. 


FRAGMENT. 

Tune — “ The  Caledonian  Hunt’s  Delight.” 

Why,  why  tell  thy  lover. 

Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy  ! 

Why,  why  undeceive  him, 

And  give  all  his  hopes  the  lie  ? 

O why,  while  fancy,  raptur’d,  slumbers, 
Chloris,  Chloris  all  the  theme  ; 

Why,  why  wouldst  thou  cruel, 

Wake  thy  lover  from  his  dream? 


HEY  FOR  A LASS  WI’  A TOCHER. 
Tune — “ Balinamona  ora.” 

Awa  wi’  your  witchcraft  o’  beauty’s  alarms, 

The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your  arms  ; 

O,  gie  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o’  charms, 

O,  gie  me  the  lass  wi’  the  weel-stockit  farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then  hey,  for  a lass  wi 1 a tocher,  then  hey  for 
a lass  wi'  a tocher, 

Then  hey , for  a lass  wi1  a tocher  ; the  nice  yel- 
low guineas  for  me. 

Your  beauty’s  a flower,  in  the  morning  that 
blows, 

And  withers  the  faster,  the  faster  it  grows ; 

But  the  rapturous  charm  o’  the  bonnie  green 
knowes,  [yowes. 

Ilk  spring  they’re  new  deckit  wi’  bonnie  white 
Then  hey,  c \-c. 

And  e’en  when  this  beauty  your  bosom  has 
blest,  [sest; 

The  brightest  o’  beauty  may  cloy,  when  pos- 

But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings,  wi’  Geordie  im- 
prest, 

The  langer  ye  hae  them — the  mair  they’re  carest. 
Then  hey,  (J-c. 


SONG. 

Tune— “Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa,hiney.” 
CHORUS. 

Here's  a health  to  ane  I lo' e dear, 

Here's  a health  to  ane  I lo'e  dear  ; [meet, 
Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers 
And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy  ! 

Altho’  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Altho’  even  hope  is  denied  ; 

’Tis  sweeter  for  thee,  despairing, 

Than  aught  in  the  world  beside — Jessy  ! 
Here's  a health,  fyc. 

I mourn  thro’  the  gay,  gaudy  day, 

As,  hopeless,  T muse  on  thy  charms  ; 

But  welcome  the  dream  o’  sweet  slumber, 
For  then  I am  loekt  in  thy  arms — Jessy  ! 
Here's  a health,  <£c. 

I guess,  by  the  dear  angle  smile, 

I guess,  by  the  love-rolling  e’e ; 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession 

’Gainst  fortune’s  fell  cruel  decree — Jessy  ! 
Here's  a health,  (f-c. 


SONG. 

Tune— “ Rothermurchies’  Rant.” 
CHORUS. 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks, 

Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon, 
Wilt  thou  lay  that  frown  aside, 

And  smile  as  thou  were  wont  to  do  ? 

Full  well  thou  know’st  I love  thee,  dear, 
Couldst  thou  to  malice  lend  an  ear  ! 

O,  did  not  love  exclaim,  “ Forbear, 

Nor  use  a faithful  lover  so  ?” 

Fairest  maid,  <£c. 

Then  come,  thou  fairest  of  the  fair. 

Those  wonted  smiles,  O,  let  me  share; 
And  by  thy  beauteous  self,  I swear, 

No  love  but  thine  my  heart  shall  know. 
Fairest  maid,  ($*c. 


THE  BIRKS  OF  ABERFELDY. 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go,  will  ye  go,  will  ye  go, 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go  to  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy? 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowery  braes, 

And  o’er  the  crystal  streamlet  plays. 

Come  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days, 

In  the  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  $c. 

While  o’er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 

The  little  birdies  blithly  sing, 

Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing, 

In  the  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  <f-c. 

The  braes  ascend  like  lofty  wa’s, 

The  foaming  stream  deep-roaring  fa’s, 
O’er-hung  wi’  fragrant  spreading  shaws, 

The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  (J-c, 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


80 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crown’d  wi’  flowers, 
White  o’er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 
And  rising,  weets  wi1  misty  showers, 
The  JBirks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  <£-c. 

Let  fortune’s  gifts  at  random  flee, 

They  ne’er  shall  draw  a wish  frae  me, 
Supremely  blest  wi’  love  and  thee, 

In  the  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  4-c. 


STAY,  MY  CHARMER,  CAN  YOU 
LEAVE  M E 7 
Tune — “ An  Gille  dubh  ciar-dhubh.” 

Stay,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  ? 
Cruel,  cruel  to  deceive  me ! 

Well  you  know  how  much  you  grieve  me  ; 
Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  ? 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go? 

By  my  love,  so  ill  requited ; 

By  the  faith  you  fondly  plighted; 

By  the  pangs  of  lovers  slighted  ; 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so  ! 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so ! 


STRATH  ALL  AN’S  LAMENT. 

Thickest  night  o’erhang  my  dwelling, 
Howling  tempests  o’er  me  rave  ! 

Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling, 

Still  surround  my  lonely  cave  ! 

Crystal  streamlets,  gently  flowing, 
Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind, 

Western  breezes,  softly  blowing, 

Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 

In  the  cause  of  right  engaged, 

Wrongs  injurious  to  redress, 

Honor’s  war  we  strongly  waged, 

But  the  heavens  deny’d  success. 

Ruin’s  wheel  has  driven  o’er  us, 

Not  a hope  that  dare  attend, 

The  wide  world  is  all  before  us — 

But  a world  without  a friend  ! 


THE  YOUNG  HIGHLAND  ROVER. 

Tune — “ Morag.” 

Loud  blaw  the  frosty  breezes, 

The  snaws  the  mountains  cover ; 

Like  winter  on  me  seizes, 

Since  my  young  Highland  Rover 
Far  wanders  nations  over. 

Where’er  he  go,  where’er  he  stray, 

May  Heaven  be  his  warden  : 

Return  him  safe  to  fair  Srathspey, 

And  bonnie  Castle-Gordon ! 

The  trees  now  naked  groaning, 

Shall  soon  wi’  leaves  be  hinging, 

The  birdies  dowie  moaning, 

Shall  a’  be  blithly  singing, 

And  every  flower  be  springing. 


Sae  I’ll  rejoice  the  lee-lang  day, 

When  by  his  mighty  warden, 

My  youth’s  return’d  to  fair  Strathspey, 
And  bonnie  Castle-Gordon. 


RAVING  WINDS  AROUND  HER 
m BLOWING. 

Tune — “M’Grigor  of  Ruaro’s  Lament.” 

Raving  winds  around  her  blowing, 

Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  strowing, 

By  a river  hoarsely  roaring, 

Isabella  stray’d  deploring. 

“ Farewell,  hours  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure  ; 

Hail,  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow, 
Cheerless  night  that  knows  no  morrow. 

“ O’er  the  past  too  fondly  wandering, 

On  the  hopeless  future  pondering  ; 

Chilly  grief  my  life-blood  freezes, 

Fell  despair  my  fancy  seizes. 

Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing, 

Load  to  misery  most  distressing, 

O how  gladly  I’d  resign  thee, 

And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee !” 


MUSING  ON  THE  ROARING  OCEAN. 

Tune — “Druimion  dubh.” 

Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean, 

Which  divides  my  love  and  me  ; 

Wearying  Heav’n  in  warm  devotion, 

For  his  weal  where’er  he  be. 

Hope  and  fear’s  alternate  billow, 

Yielding  late  to  nature’s  law  ; 

Whisp’ring  spirits  round  my  pillow 
Talk  of  him  that’s  far  awa. 

Y e whom  sorrow  never  wounded, 

Ye  who  never  shed  a tear, 

Care-untroubled,  joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy  day  to  you  is  dear. 

Gentle  night,  do  thou  befriend  me ; 
Downy  sleep,  the  curtain  draw  ; 

Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me, 

Talk  of  him  that’s  far  awa ! 


- BLITHE  WAS  SHE. 

Blithe,  blithe  and  merry  was  she, 
Blithe  was  she  but  and  ben  : 

Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Em, 

And  blithe  in  Glenturit  glen. 

By  Oughtertyre  grows  the  aik, 

On  Yarrow  banks,  the  birken  shaw  ; 
But  Phemie  was  a bonnier  lass 
Than  braes  o’  Y arrow  ever  saw. 
Blithe,  4*c. 

Her  looks  were  like  a flower  in  May, 
Her  smile  was  like  a simmer  morn  ; 
She  tripped  by  the  banks  of  Ern, 

As  light ’s  a bird  upon  a thorn. 

Blithe , <$-c. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


81 


Her  bonnie  face  it  was  as  meek 
As  ony  lamb  upon  a lee  ; 

The  evening  sun  was  ne'er  sae  swee 
As  was  the  blink  o’  Phemie's  e’e. 
Blithe, 

The  Highland  hills  I’ve  wander'd  wide, 
And  o’er  the  Lowlands  I hae  been; 
But  Phemie  was  the  blithest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 
Blithe,  <£c. 


A ROSE-BUD  BY  MY  EARLY  WALK. 

A rose-bud  by  my  early  walk, 

Adown  acorn-enclosed  bawk, 

Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk 
All  on  a dewy  morning. 

Ere  twice  the  shades  o’  dawn  are  fled, 

In  a'  its  crimson  glory  spread, 

And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head, 

It  scents  the  early  morning. 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest 
A little  linnet  fondly  prest, 

The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 
Sae  early  in  the  morning. 

She  soon  shall  see  her  tender  brood, 

The  pride,  the  pleasure  o’  the  wood, 

Amang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew’d, 
Awake  the  early  morning. 

So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jenny  fair, 

On  trembling  siring  or  vocal  air, 

Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 
That  tents  thy  early  morning. 

So  thou,  sweet  rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day, 

And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray 
That  wratch’d  thy  early  morning. 


WHERE  BRAVING-  ANGRY  WIN- 
TER’S STORMS. 

Tune — “ N.  Gow’s  Lamentation  for  Abercairny .” 

Where  braving  angry  winter’s  storms, 
The  lofty  O chi  Is  rise. 

Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy’s  charms 
First  blest  my  wondering  eyes. 

As  one,  beside  some  savage  stream, 

A lovely  gem  surveys, 

Astonish’d,  doubly  marks  its  beam, 

With  art’s  most  polish’d  blaze. 

Blest  be  the  wild,  sequester’d  shade, 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour, 

Where  Peggy’s  charms  I first  survey'd, 
When  first  I felt  their  povv’r  ! 

The  tyrant  death  with  grim  control 
May  seize  my  fleeting  breath  ; 

But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 
Must  be  a- stronger  death. 


TIBBIE,  I HAE  SEEN  THE  DAY. 
Tuxe — “Ivercald’s  Reel.” 

CHORUS. 

0 Tibbie,  1 hae  seen  the  day, 

Ye  would  nae  been  sae  shy  ; 

6 


For  laik  o’  gear  ye  lightly  me, 

But  trowth,  1 care  na  by. 

Yestreen  I met  you  on  the  moor, 

Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stoure  : 
Ye  geek  at  me  because  I’m  poor, 

But  feint  a hair  care  I. 

0 Tibbie,  1 hae,  $c. 

I doubt  na,  lass,  but  you  may  think, 
Because  ye  hae  the  name  o’  clink, 
That  ye  can  please  me  at  a wink, 
Whene’er  you  like  to  try. 

0 Tibbie,  1 hae,  fyc. 

But  sorrow  tak  him  that’s  sae  mean, 
Altho’  his  pouch  o’  coin  were  clean, 
Wha  follows  ony  saucy  quean 
That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

0 Tibbie,  I hae,  fyc. 

Altho’  a lad  were  e’er  sae  smart, 

If  that  he  want  the  yellow  dirt, 

Ye’ll  cast  your  head  anither  airt, 

And  answer  him  fu’  dry. 

O Tibbie,  I hae,  (£*c. 

But  if  he  hae  the  name  o’  gear. 

Ye’ll  fasten  to  him  like  a brier, 

Tho’  hardly  he  for  sense,  or  lear, 

Be  better  than  the  kye. 

0 Tibbie,  I hae,  $c. 

But,  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice, 

Your  daddie’s  gear  maks  you  sae  nice, 
The  deil  a ane  wad  spier  your  price, 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  I. 

0 Tibbie,  1 hae,  <§-c. 

There  lives  a lass  in  yonder  park, 

I would  na  gie  her  in  her  sark, 

For  thee  wi’  a’  thy  thousand  mark  : 
Ye  need  na  look  sae  high. 

0 Tibbie,  I hae,  §-c. 


CLARIND  A. 

Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul, 

The  measur’d  time  is  run  ! 

The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole, 
So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 
Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie  ; 

Depriv’d  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, 
The  sun  of  all  his  joy. 

We  part — but  by  these  precious  drops 
That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes  ! 

No  other  light  shall  guide  my  steps 
Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex, 

Has  blest  my  glorious  day  : 

And  shall  a glimmering  planet  fix 
My  worship  to  its  ray  ? 


THE  DAY  RETURNS,  MY  BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tune — “ Seventh  of  November.” 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet, 

Tho’  winter  wild  in  tempest  toil’d, 

Ne’er  summer-sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 


82  BURNS’ 

Than  a’  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide, 

And  crosses  o’er  the  sultry  line  ; 

Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and  globes, 
Heaven  gave  me  more — it  made  thee  mine. 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight, 

Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give  ; 

While  joys  above,  my  mind  can  move, 

For  thee  and  thee  alone,  I live  ! 

When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below, 

Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part ; 

The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band, 

It  breaks  my  bliss, — it  breaks  my  heart. 


THE  LAZY  MIST. 

The  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

Concealing  the  course  of  the  dark  winding  rill ; 

How  languid  the  scenes,  late  so  sprightly,  ap- 
pear, 

As  autumn  to  winter  resigns  the  pale  year  ! 

The  forests  are  leafless,  the  meadows  are  brown, 

And  all  the  gay  foppery  of  summer  is  flown; 

Apart  let  me  wander,  apart  let  me  muse, 

How  quick  time  is  flying,  how  keen  fate  pur- 
sues ; 

How  long  I hare  liv’d — but  how  much  liv’d 
in  vain : 

How  little  of  life’s  scanty  span  may  remain : 

What  aspects,  old  Time,  in  his  progress,  has 
worn ; 

What  ties,  cruel  fate  in  my  bosom  has  torn. 

How  foolish,  or  worse,  till  our  summit  is  gain’d ! 

And  downward,  how  weaken’d,  how  darken’d, 
how  pain’d ! 

This  life’s  not  worth  having  with  all  it  can  give, 

For  something  beyond  it  poor  man  sure  must 
live. 


O,  WERE  I ON  PARNASSUS’  HILL! 

Tune— “ My  love  is  lost  to  me.” 

O,  wxre  I on  Parnassus’  hill ! 

Or  had  of  Helicon  my  fill ; 

That  I might  catch  poetic  skill, 

To  sing  how  dear  I love  thee  ! 

But  Nith  maun  be  my  muse's  well, 

My  muse  maun  be  thy  bonnie  sel ; 

On  Corsincon  I’ll  glowr  and  spell, 

And  write  how  dear  I love  thee. 

Then  come,  sweet  muse,  inspire  my  lay  ! 
For  a’  the  lee-lang  simmer’s  day, 

I coudna  sing,  I coudna  say, 

How  much,  how  dear  I love  thee. 

I see  thee  dancing  o’er  the  green, 

Thy  waist  sae  jimp,  thy  limbs  sae  clean, 
Thy  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  een — 

By  heaven  and  earth,  I love  thee! 

>By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame, 

The  thoughts  o’  thee  my  breast  inflame  ; 
And  ay  I muse  and  sing  thy  name, 

I only  live  to  love  thee. 

Tho’  I were  doom’d  to  wander  on, 

Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun, 

Till  my  last  weary  sand  was  run ; 

Till  then — and  then  I love  thee. 


POEMS. 

I LOVE  MY  JEAN. 

Tune — •“  Miss  Admiral  Gordon’s  Strathspey.” 

Of  a’  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I dearly  like  the  west, 

For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I lo’e  best : 

There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  flow, 
And  mony  a hill  between  ; 

But  day  and  night,  my  fancy’s  flight 
Is  ever  wi’  my  Jean. 

I see  her  in  the  dewy  flow’rs, 

I see  her  sweet  and  fair  : 

I hear  her  in  the  tunefu’  birds, 

I hear  her  charm  the  air  : 

There’s  not  a bonnie  flower  that  springs, 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 

There’s  not  a bonnie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o’  my  Jean. 


THE  BRAES  O’  BALLOCHMYLE 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 

The  flowers  decay’d  on  Catrine  lee, 

Nae  lav’rock  sang  on  hillock  green, 

But  nature  sicken’d  on  the  e’e. 

Thro’  faded  grote  Maria  sang, 

Herscl  in  beauty’s  bloom  the  while, 

And  ay  the  wild- wood  echoes  rang, 
Fareweel  the  braes  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Low  in  your  wintry  beds,  ye  flowers, 

Again  ye’ll  flourish  fresh  and  fair ; 

Ye  birdies  dumb,  in  with’ring  bowers, 
Again  ye’ll  charm  the  vocal  air. 

But  here,  alas ! for  me  nae  mair 

Shall  birdie  charm,  or  floweret  smile ; 

Fareweel  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr, 
Fareweel,  fareweel ! sweet  Ballochmyle. 


WILLIE  BREW’D  A PECK  O’ MAUT. 

0,  willie  brew’d  a peck  o’  maut, 

And  Rob  and  Allan  came  to  see  ; 

Three  blither  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night, 
Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christendie. 

We  are  nafou,  we're  na  that  fou , 

But  just  a drappie  in  our  e’e  ; 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 
And  ay  we'll  taste  the  barley  bree. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 
Three  merry  boys,  I trow  are  we  ; 

And  mony  a night  we’ve  merry  been, 
And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be  ! 

We  are  nafou , $*c. 

It  is  the  moon,  I ken  her  horn, 

That’s  blinkin  in  the  lift  sae  hie  ; 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame, 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she’ll  wait  a wee  ! 
We  are  nafou , <fc. 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 

A cuckold,  coward  loon  is  he  ! 

Wha  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa’, 

He  is  the  king  amang  us  three  ! 

We  are  na  fou , <£c. 


BURNS*  POEMS. 


83 


THE  BLUE -EYED  LASSIE. 

I gaed  a waefu'  gate,  yestreen, 

A gate,  I fear,  I’ll  dearly  rue  ; 

I gat  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o’  bonnie  blue. 

’Twas  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright ; 

Her  lips  like  roses  wat  wi’  dew, 

Her  heaving  bosom,  lily-white;  — 

It  was  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 

She  talk’d,  she  smil’d,  my  heart  she  wil’d, 

She  charm’d  my  soul  I wist  na  how  ; 
And  ay  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound, 
Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 

But  spare  to  speak,  and  spare  to  speed ; 

She'll  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow  : 

Should  she  refuse,  I’ll  lay  my  dead 
To  her  twa  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 


THE  BANKS  OF  NITH. 

Tcne — “ Robie  Dona  Gorach.” 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea, 
Where  royal  cities  stately  stand ; 

But  sweeter  flows  the  Nith  to  me, 

Where  Commins  ance  had  high  command : 

When  shall  I see  that  honor’d  land, 

That  winding  stream  I love  so  dear ! 

Must  wayward  fortune’s  adverse  hand 
Forever,  ever  keep  me  here  ? 

How  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  vales, 

Where  spreading  hawthorns  gaily  bloom  ; 

How  sweetly  wind  thy  sloping  dales, 

Where  lambkins  wanton  thro’  the  broom  ! 

Tho’  wandering,  now,  must  be  my  doom, 
Far  from  thy  bonnie  banks  and  braes, 

May  there  my  latest  hours  consume, 

Amang  the  friends  of  early  days  ! 


JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  JO. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent ; 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 

But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw  ; 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 

And  monv  a canty  day,  John, 

We’ve  had  wi’  ane  anither  : 

Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  and  hand  we’ll  go, 

And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


TAM  GLEN. 

My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  Tittie, 
Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len’, 
To  anger  them  a’  is  a pity  ; 

But  what  will  I do  wi’  Tam  Glen  ? 

I’m  thinkin,  wi’  sic  a braw  fellow, 

In  poortith  I might  mak  a fen’ ; 


What  care  I.in  riches  to  wallow, 

If  I maunna  marry  Tam  Glen  ? 

There's  Lowrie  the  laird  o’  Drummeiler, 

“ Guid  day  to  you,  brute,”  he  comes  ben: 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o’  his  siller, 

But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam  Glen  ? 

My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me, 

And  bids  me  beware  of  young  men  ; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me ; 

But  wha  can  think  sae  o’  Tam  Glen  ? 

My  daddie  says,  gin  I’ll  forsake  him, 

He’ll  gie  me  guid  hunder  marks  ten : 

But,  if  it’s  ordain’d  I maun  tak  him, 

O wha  will  I get  but  Tam  Glen  ? 

Yestreen  at  the  Valentine’s  dealing, 

My  heart  to  my  mou  gied  a sten ; 

For  thrice  I drew  ane  without  failing, 

And  thrice  it  was  written,  Tam  Glen  ? 

The  last  Halloween  I was  waukin 
My  droukit  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken, 

His  likeness  cam  up  the  house  staukin. 

And  the  very  gray  breeks  o’  Tam  Glen! 

Come  counsel,  dear  Tittie,  don’t  tarry  ; 

I’ll  gie  you  my  bonnie  black  hen, 

Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 
The  lad  I lo’e  dearly,  Tam  Glen. 


MY  TOCHER’S  THE  JEWEL. 

O meikle  thinks  my  luve  o’  my  beauty, 

And  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o’  my, kin  ; 

But  little  thinks  my  luve  I ken  brawlie, 

My  tocher’s  the  jewel  has  charms  for  him. 

It’s  a’  for  the  apple  he’ll  nourish  the  tree  ; 

It’s  a’  for  the  hiney  he’ll  cherish  the  bee  ; 

My  laddie’s  sae  meikle  in  luve  wi’  the  siller, 
He  canna  hae  luve  to  spare  for  me. 

Your  proffer  o’  luve’s  an  airl-penny, 

My  tocher’s  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy  ; 

But  an  ye  be  crafty,  I am  cunnin, 

Sae  ye  wi’  anither  your  fortune  may  try. 

Ye’re  like  to  the  trimmer  o’  yon  rotten  wood, 
Ye’re  like  to  the  bark  of  yon  rotten  tree, 

Ye’ll  slip  frae  me  like  a knotless  thread, 

And  ye’ll  crack  your  credit  wi’  mae  nor  me. 


THEN  GUIDWIFE  COUNT  THE 
LAWIN. 

Gane  is  the  day,  and  mirk’s  the  night, 

But  we’ll  ne’er  stay  for  faute  o’  light, 

For  ale  and  brandy’s  stars  and  moon, 

And  bluid-red  wine ’s  the  rysin  sun. 

Then  guidv)ife  count  the  law  in,  the  lawin,  the 
law  in,  [cog gie  mair. 

Then  guidwife  count  the  lawin,  and  bring  a 

There’s  wealth  and  ease  for  gentlemen, 

And  semple-folk  maun  fecht  and  fen’ ; 

But  here  we’re  a’  in  ae  accord, 

For  ilka  man  that’s  drunk’s  a lord. 

Then  guidwife  count , <£c. 


84 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


My  coggie  is  a haly  pool, 

That  heals  the  wounds  o’  care  and  dool ; 
And  pleasure  is  a wanton  trout, 

An1  ye  drink  it  a’  ye’ll  find  him  out. 

Then  guidwife  count,  fyc. 


WHAT  CAN  A YOUNG  LASSIE  DO 
WI’  AN  AULD  MAN? 

What  can  a young  lassie,  what  shall  a young 
lassie, 

What  can  a young  lassie  do  wi’  an  auld  man? 

Bad  luck  on  the  pennie  that  tempted  my  minnie 
To  sell  her  poor  Jennie  for  siller  an’  Ian’ ! 

Bad  luck  on  the  pennie,  <£-c. 

He’s  always  compleenin  frae  mornin  to  e’enin, 
He  hosts  and  he  hirples  the  weary  day  lang  ; 

He’s  doylt  and  he’s  dozen,  his  bluidit  is  frozen, 
O,  dreary’s  the  night  with  a crazy  auld  man  ! 

He  hums  and  he  hankers,  he  frets  and  he  can- 
kers, 

I never  can  please  him,  do  a’  that  I can  ; 

He’s  peevish  and  jealous  of  a’  the  young  fel- 
lows : 

O,  dool  on  the  day  I met  wi’  an  auld  man  ! 

My  auld  auntie  Katie  upon  me  taks  pity, 

I’ll  do  my  endeavor  to  follow  her  plan ; 

I’ll  cross  him,  and  wrack  him,  until  I heart- 
break him,  [pan. 

And  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me  a new 


THE  BONNIE  WEE  THING. 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing, 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wast  thou  mine, 

I wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I should  tine. 

Wishfully  I look  and  languish 
In  that  bonnie  face  o’  thine  ; 

And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi’  anguish, 
Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 

Wit,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  beauty, 
In  ae  constellation  shine  ; 

To  adore  thee  is  my  duly, 

Goddess  of  this  soul  o’  mine  ! 

Bonnie  wee,  8,-c. 


O,  FOR  ANE  AND  TWENTY,  TAM'. 
Tune — “The  Moudiewort.” 

An  0 , for  one  and  twenty,  Tarn  ' 

An  hey,  sweet  ane  and  twenty,  Tam! 
Til  learn  my  kin  a ratllin  sang , 

An  1 saw  ane  and  twenty,  Tam. 

They  snool  me  sair,  and  haud  me  down, 
And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,  Tam  ! 

But  three  short  years  will  soon  wheel  roun’, 
And  then  comes  ane  and  twenty,  Tam, 
An  0,for  ane,  $c. 

A gleib  o’  lan’,  a claut  o’  gear, 

Was  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam  ! 


At  kith  or  kin  I needna  spier, 

An  I saw  ane  and  twenty,  Tam ! 

An  0,  for  ane,  4*c. 

They’ll  hae  me  wed  a wealthy  coof, 
Tho’  I mysel’  hae  plenty,  Tam  ; 

But  hear’st  thou,  laddie,  there’s  my  loof. 
I’m  thine  at  ane  and  twenty,  Tam ! 
An  0,  for  ane,  <§-c. 


BESS  AND  HER  SPINNING  WHEEL 

O leeze  me  on  my  spinning  wheel, 

O leeze  me  on  my  rock  and  reel, 

Frae  tap  to  tae  that  deeds  me  bien, 

And  haps  me  fiel  and  warm  at  e’en  ! 

I’ll  set  me  down  and  sing  and  spin, 

While  laigh  descends  the  simmer  sun, 
Blest  wi’  content,  and  milk  and  meal — 

O leeze  me  on  my  spinning  wheel. 

On  ilka  hand  the  burnies  trot, 

And  meet  below  my  theekit  cot ; 

The  scented  birk  and  hawthorn  white 
Across  the  pool  their  arms  unite, 

Alike  to  screen  the  birdie’s  nest, 

And  little  fishes’  caller  rest : 

The  sun  blinks  kindly  in  the  biel’, 

Where  blithe  I turn  my  spinning  wheel. 

On  lofty  aiks  the  cushats  wail, 

And  echo  cons  the  doolfu’  tale  ; 

The  lintwhites  in  the  hazel  braes, 
Delighted,  rival  ither  lays: 

The  craik  amang  the  claver  hay. 

The  paitrick  whirrin  o’er  the  lev. 

The  swallow  jinkin  round  my  shiel, 
Amuse  me  at  my  spinning  wheel. 

Wi’  sma’  to  sell,  and  less  to  buy, 

Aboon  distress,  below  envy, 

O wha  wad  leave  this  humble  state, 

For  a’  the  pride  of  a’  the  great? 

Amid  their  flaring,  idle  toys, 

Amid  their  cumbrous,  dinsome  joys, 

Can  they  the  peace  and  pleasure  feel 
Of  Bessy  at  her  spinning  wheel  ? 


COUNTRY  LASSIE. 

In  simmer  when  the  hay  was  mawn, 
And  corn  wav’d  green  in  ilka  field, 

While  claver  blooms  white  o’er  the  lea, 
And  roses  blaw  in  ilka  bield  ; 

Blithe  Bessie  in  the  milking  shiel, 

Says,  I’ll  he  wed,  come  o’t  what  will; 

Out  spak  a dame  in  wrinkled  eild, 

“O’  guid  advisement  comes  nae  ill. 

“ It’s  ye  hae  wooers  mony  ane, 

And  lassie,  ye’re  but  young,  ye  ken  ; 

Then  wait  a wee,  and  cannie  wale, 

A routhie  but,  a routhie  ben : 

There’s  Johnie  o’  the  Buskie-glen, 

Fu’  is  his  barn,  fu’  is  his  byre  : 

Tak  this  frae  me,  my  bonnie  hen, 

It’s  plenty  beets  the  luver’s  fire.’* 

For  Johnie  o’  the  Buskie-glen, 

I dinna  care  a single  flie  ; 

He  lo’es  sae  well  his  craps  and  kye, 

He  has  no  hive  to  spare  for  me : 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


But  blithe’s  the  blink  o’  Robie’s  e’e, 

And  weel  I wat  he  lo’es  me  dear : 

Ae  blink  o’  him  I wad  na  gie 
For  Buskie-glen  and  a’  his  gear. 

**  O thoughtless  lassie,  life’s  a faught; 

The  canniest  gate,  the  strife  is  sair; 

But  ay  fu’  han’t  is  fechtin  best, 

A hungry  care’s  an  unco  care  : 

But  some  will  spend,  and  some  will  spare, 
An’  willfu’  folk  maun  hae  their  will ; 

Syne  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair, 

Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yill.” 

O,  gear  will  buy  me  rigs  o’  land, 

And  gear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye  ; 

But  the  tender  heart  o’  leesome  luve, 

The  gowd  and  siller  canna  buy  : 

We  may  be  poor — Robie  and  I, 

Light  is  the  burden  luve  lays  on  ; 

Content  and  luve  brings  peace  and  joy, 
What  mair  hae  queens  upon  a throne  ? 


FAIR  ELIZA. 

A GAELIC  AIR. 

Truv  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 

Ae  kind  blink  before  we  part, 

Rew  on  thy  despairing  lover  ! 

Canst  thou  break  his  faithfu’  heart  ? 
Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza  ; 

If  to  love  tliy  heart  denies, 

For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence, 
Under  friendship’s  kind  disguise. 

Thee,  dear  maid,  hae  I offended  ? 

The  offence  is  loving  thee  : 

Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  forever, 
Wha  for  thine  wad  gladly  die  ? 
While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom, 
Thou  shalt  mix  in  ilka  throe  : 

Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden, 

Ae  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow. 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  blossom, 

In  the  pride  o’  sinny  noon ; 

Not  the  little  sporting  fairy, 

All  beneath  the  simmer  moon; 

Not  the  poet  in  the  moment 
Fancy  lightens  on  his  e’e, 

Kens  the  pleasure,  feels  the  rapture, 
That  thy  presence  gies  to  me. 


THE  POSIE. 

O LUVE  will  venture  in,  where  it  daur  na  weel 
be  seen,  [has  been  ; 

O luve  will  venture  in,  where  wisdom  ance 

But  I will  down  yon  river  rove,  amang  the  wood 
sae  green, 

And  a’  to  pu’  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I will  pu’,  the  firstling  o’  the 
year, 

And  I will  pu’  the  pink,  the  emblem  o’  my  dear, 

For  she’s  the  pink  o’  womankind,  and  blooms 
without  a peer  ; 

And  a’  to  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I’ll  pu’ the  budding  rose  when  Phoebus  peeps  in 
view,  [mou ; 

For  it’s  like  a baumy  kiss  o’  her  sweet  bonnie 


85 

The  hyacinth ’s  for  constancy,  wi’  its  unchang- 
ing blue, 

And  a’  to  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair, 

And  in  her  lovely  bosom  I’ll  place  the  lily  there ; 
The  daisy ’s  for  simplicty  and  unaffected  air, 

And  a’  to  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  hawthorn  I will  pu’,  wi’  its  locks  o’  siller 
gray,  [day, 

Where,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands  at  break  o’ 
But  the  songster’s  nest  within  the  bush  I win- 
na  tak  away ; 

And  a’  to  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  woodbine  I will  pu’  when  the  e’ening  star 
is  near,  [sae  clear : 

And  the  diamond-draps  o’  dew  shall  be  her  een 
The  violet ’s  for  modesty,  which  weel  she  fa’s 
to  wear, 

And  a’  to  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I’ll  tie  the  posie  round  wi’  the  silken  band  of 
luve,  [a’  above. 

And  I’ll  place  it  in  her  breast,  and  I’ll  swear  by 
That  to  my  latest  draught  o’  life,  the  band  shall 
ne’er  remove, 

And  this  will  be  a posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 


THE  BANKS  O’  DOON. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o’  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair ; 

IIow  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I sae  weary,  fu’  o’  care ! 

Thou’lt  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 
That  wantons  thro’  the  flowering  thorn ; 

Thou  minds  me  o’  departed  joys, 

Departed  never  to  return. 

Oft  hae  I rov’d  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine ; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o’  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I o’  mine. 

Wi’  lightsome  heart  I p’ud  a rose, 

Fu’  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree: 

But  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But  ah ! he  left  the  thorn  wi’  me. 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Catharine  Ogie.” 

Ye  flowery  banks  o’  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair, 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I sae  fu’  o’  care  ! 

Thou’Il  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 
That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 

Thou  minds  me  o’  the  happy  days 
When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou’ll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 

For  sae  I sat,  and  sae  I sang, 

And  wist  na  o’  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I rov’d  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o’  its  love, 

And  sae  did  I o’  mine. 


86  BURNS’ 

Wi’  lightsome  heart  I pu’d  a rose, 

Frae  affits  thorny  tree, 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi’  me. 


SIC  A WIFE  AS  WILLIE  HAD. 

Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed, 

The  spot  they  ca'd  it  Linkumdoddie, 

Willie  was  a wabster  guid, 

Cou’d  stown  a clue  wi’  ony  bodie; 

He  had  a wife  was  dour  and  din, 

O Tinkler  Madgie  was  her  mither ; 

Sic  a wife  as  Willie  had , 

1 wad  na  gie  a button  for  her. 

She  has  an  e’e,  she  has  but  ane, 

The  cat  has  twa  the  very  color  ; 

Five  rusty  teeth,  forbye  a stump, 

A clapper  tongue  wad  deave  a miller  ; 

A whisken  beard  about  her  mou, 

Her  nose  and  chin  they  threaten  ither ; 

Sic  a wife,  <f-c. 

She’s  bow-hough ’d,  she’s  hein-shinn’d, 

Ae  limpin  leg  a hand-breed  shorter ; 

She ’s  twisted  right,  she ’s  twisted  left, 

To  balance  fair  in  ilka  quarter  : 

She  had  a hump  upon  her  breast, 

The  twin  o’  that  upon  her  shouther ; 

Sic  a wife,  fyc. 

Auld  baudrans  by  the  ingle  sits, 

An1  wi’  her  loofher  face  a-washin; 

But  Willie’s  wife  is  nae  sae  trig, 

She  dights  her  grunzie  wi’  a hushion ; 

Her  walie  nieves  like  middin-creels, 

Her  face  wad  fyle  the  Logan- Water, 

* Sic  a wife  as  Willie  had, 

I wad  na  gie  a button  for  her. 


GLOOMY  DECEMBER. 

Ance  mair  I hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December ! 

Ance  mair  I hail  thee  wi’  sorrow  and  care; 
Sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  remember, 
Parting  wi’  Nancy,  oh  ! ne’er  to  meet  mair. 
Fond  lovers  parting  is  sweet  painful  pleasure, 
Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  parting  hour; 
But  the  dire  feeling,  O farewell  forever, 

Is  anguish  unminglecl  and  agony  pure. 

Wild  as  the  winter  now  tearing  the  forest, 

Till  the  last  leaf  o’  the  summer  is  flown, 
Such  is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my  bosom, 
Since  my  last  hope  and  last  comfort  is  gone  ; 
Still  as  I hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December, 
Still  shall  I hail  thee  wi’  sorrow  and  care  ; 
For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  re- 
member, 

Parting  wi’  Nancy,  oh,  ne’er  to  meet  mair. 


WILT  THOU  BE  MY  DEARIE? 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart  ? 
O wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 

By  the  treasure  of  my  sou' 


POEMS. 

And  that ’s  the  love  I bear  thee ! 

I swear  and  vow,  that  only  thou 
Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Only  thou,  I swear  and  vow, 
Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Lassie,  say  thou  lo’es  me ; 

Or  if  thou  wilt  na  be  my  ain, 
Say  na  thou’lt  refuse  me  : 

If  it  winna,  canna  be, 

Thou  for  thine  may  choose  me  ; 

Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die, 
Trusting  that  thou  lo’es  me. 
Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die, 
Trusting  that  thou  lo’es  me. 


SHE’S  FAIR  AND  FAUSE 

She’s  fair  and  fause,  that  causes  my  smart, 

I lo’ed  her  meikle  and  lang ; 

She’s  broken  her  vow,  she’s  broken  my  heart. 
And  I may  e’en  gae  hang. 

A coof  cam  in  wi’  rowth  o’  gear, 

And  I hae  tint  my  dearest  dear, 

But  woman  is  but  warld’s  gear, 

Sae  let  the  bonnie  lass  gang. 

Whae’er  ye  be  that  woman  love, 

To  this  be  never  blind, 

Nae  ferlie  ’tis  tho’  fickle  she  prove, 

A woman  has’t  by  kind  ; 

O woman,  lovely,  woman  fair  ! 

An  angel’s  form’s  faun  to  thy  share, 

Twad  been  o’er  meikle  to  gien  thee  mair, 

I mean  an  angel  mind. 


AFTON  WATER. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 
braes, 

Flow  gently,  I’ll  sing  thee  a song  in  thy  praise  ; 
My  Mary’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her 
dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro’ the 
glen, 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds,  in  yon  thorny  den. 
Thou  green-crested  lap- wing,  thy  screaming  for- 
bear, 

I charge  you,  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills. 
Far  mark’d  wi’  the  courses  of  clear,  winding  rills; 
There  daily  I wander  as  noon  rises  high, 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary’s  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  be- 
low, [blow ; 

Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses 
There,  oft,  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet  scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  softly  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides; 
How  wanton  thy  Vvaters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 

As  gathering  sweet  flow’rets  she  stems  thy 
clear  wave 


BURNS’  POEMS 


87 


Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 
braes, 

Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays  , 
My  Mary  ’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently%  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her 
dream. 


BONNIE  BELL. 

The  smiling  spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 

And  surly  winter  grimly  flies  : 

Now  crystal  clear  are  the  falling  waters, 

And  bonnie  blue  are  the  sunny  skies  ; 

Fresh  o’er  the  mountains  breaks  forth  the 
morning. 

The  ev’ning  gilds  the  ocean’s  swell ; 

All  creatures  joy  in  the  sun’s  returning, 

And  I rejoice  in  my  bonnie  Bell. 

The  flowery  spring  leads  sunny  summer, 

And  yellow  autumn  presses  near, 

Then  in  his  turn  comes  gloomy  winter, 

Till  smiling  spring  again  appear. 

Thus  seasons  dancing,  life  advancing, 

Old  Time  and  nature  their  changes  tell, 

But  never  ranging,  still  unchanging 
I adore  my  bonnie  Bell. 


THE  GALLANT  WEAVER. 

Where  Cart  rins  rowin  to  the  sea. 

By  mony  a flow’r,  and  spreading  tree, 

There  lives  a lad,  the  lad  for  me, 

He  is  a gallant  weaver. 

Oh  I had  wooers  aught  or  nine, 

They  gied  me  rings  and  ribbons  fine  ; 

And  I was  fear’d  my  heart  would  tine, 

And  I gied  it  to  the  weaver. 

My  daddie  sign’d  my  tocher-band, 

To  gie  the  lad  that  has  the  land ; 

But  to  my  heart  I’ll  add  my  hand, 

And  gie  it  to  the  weaver. 

While  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers ; 

While  bees  rejoice  in  opening  flowers; 
While  corn  grows  green  in  simmer  showers, 
I’ll  love  my  gallant  weaver. 


LOUIS,  WHAT  RECK  I BY  THEE? 

Louis,  what  reck  I by  thee, 

Or  Geordie  on  his  ocean  ? 

Dyvor,  beggar  louns  to  me, 

I reign  in  Jeanie’s  bosom. 

Let  her  crown  my  love  her  law, 

And  in  her  breast  enrhrone  me  : 

Kings  and  nations,  swith  awa! 

Reif  randies,  I disown  ye  ! 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  SOMEBODY. 

My  heart  is  sair,  I dare  na  tell, 

My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody ; 


I could  wake  a winter  night 
For  the  sake  o’  somebody, 

Oh-hon  ! for  somebody! 

Oh-hey  ! for  somebody  ! 

I could  range  the  world  around, 

For  the  sake  of  somebody  ! 

Ye  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love, 
O,  sweetly  smile  on  somebody  ! 
Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free, 

And  send  me  safe  my  somebody. 
Oh-hon  ! for  somebody  ! 

Oh-hey  ! for  somebody  ! 

I wad  do — what  wad  I not? 

For  the  sake  of  somebody  ! 


THE  LOVELY  LASS  OF  INVERNESS. 

The  lovely  lass  o’  Inverness, 

Nac  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see  ; 

For  e’en  and  morn  she  cries,  alas  ! 

And  ay  the  saut  tear  blins  her  e’e  : 

Drumossie  moor,  Drumossie  day, 

A waefu’  day  it  was  to  me  ; 

For  there  I lost  my  father  dear, 

My  father  dear  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 

Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see  ; 

And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a woman’s  e’e  ! 

Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A bluidy  man  I trow  thou  be  ; 

For  mony  a heart  thou  hast  made  sair, 

That  ne’er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee. 


A MOTHER’S  LAMENT  FOR  THE 
DEATH  OF  HER  SON. 

Tune — “ Finlayston  House.” 

Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped, 

And  pierc’d  my  darling’s  heart: 

And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 
Life  can  to  me  impart. 

By  cruel  hands  the  sapling  drops, 

In  dust  dishonor’d  laid  : 

So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes, 

My  age’s  future  shade. 

The  mother-linnet  in  the  brake, 

Bewails  her  ravish’d  young; 

So  I,  for  my  lost  darling’s  sake, 

Lament  the  live-day  long. 

Death,  oft  I’ve  fear’d  thy  fatal  blow, 

Now  fond  I bare  my  breast, 

0,  do  thou  kindly  lay  me  low 
With  him  I love,  at  rest ! 


O MAY,  THY  MORN. 

O May,  thy  morn  were  ne’er  sae  sweet 
As  the  mirk  night  o’  December ; 

For  sparkling  was  the  rosy  wine, 

And  private  was  the  chamber  : 

And  dear  was  she  I dare  na  name, 

But  I will  ay  remember. 

And  dear,  ($*c. 


88 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


And  here’s  to  them,  that,  like  oursel, 
Can  push  about  the  jorum  ; 

And  here’s  to  them  that  wish  us  weel, 
May  a’  that’s  guid  watch  o’er  them  ; 
And  here’s  to  them  we  dare  na  tell, 
The  dearest  o’  the  quorum. 

And  here's  to,  (fc. 


O,  WAT  YE  WHA’S  IN  YON  TOWN? 

O,  wat  ye  wha’s  in  yon  town, 

Ye  see  the  e’nin  sun  upon  ? 

The  fairest  dame ’s  in  yon  town, 

That  e’enin  sun  is  shining  on. 

Now  haply  down  yon  gay  green  shaw, 

She  wanders  by  yon  spreading  tree  : 

How  blest  ye  flow’rs  that  round  her  blaw, 

Y e catch  the  glances  o’  her  e’e  ! 

How  blest,  ye  birds  that  round  her  sing, 

And  welcome  in  the  blooming  year ! 

And  doubly  welcome  be  the  spring, 

The  season  to  my  Lucy  dear. 

The  sun  blinks  blithe  on  yon  town, 

And  on  yon  bonnie  braes  of  Ayr  ; 

But  my  delight  in  yon  town, 

And  dearest  bliss,  is  Lucy  fair. 

Without  my  love,  not  a’  the  charms 
O’  Paradise  could  yield  me  joy ; 

But  gie  me  Lucy  in  my  arms, 

And  welcome  Lapland’s  deary  sky. 

My  cave  wad  be  a lover’s  bower, 

Tko’  raging  winter  rent  the  air; 

And  she  a lovely  little  flower, 

That  I wad  tent  and  shelter  there. 

0,  sweet  is  she  in  yon  town, 

Yon  sinkin  sun’s  gane  down  upon  ! 

A fairer  than ’s  in  yon  town, 

His  setting  beam  ne’er  shone  upon. 

If  anger  fate  is  sworn  my  foe, 

And  suffering  I am  doom’d  to  bear ; 

I careless  quit  aught  else  below, 

But  spare  me,  spare  me  Lucy  dear. 

For  while  life’s  dearest  blood  is  warm, 

Ae  thought  frae  her  shall  ne’er  depart, 

And  she — as  fairest  is  her  form  ! 

She  has  the  truest,  kindest  heart. 


A RED,  RED  ROSE. 

0,  my  luve ’s  like  a red,  red  rose, 
That’s  newly  sprung  in  June  : 

O,  my  luve ’s  like  the  melodie, 
That ’s  sweetly  play’d  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 

And  I will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi’  the  sun: 

I will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o’  life  shall  run. 

And  fare-thee-weel,  my  only  luve ! 
And  fare-thee-weel  a- while  ! 


And  I will  come  again,  my  luve, 
Tho’  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


A VISION. 

As  I stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 

Where  the  wa’ -flower  scents  the  dewy  air, 

Where  the  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower, 
And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care. 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 

The  stars  they  shot  alang  the  sky  ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 

And  the  distant-echoing  glens  reply. 

The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path, 

Was  rushing  by  the  ruin’d  wa’s, 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 

Whase  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa’s. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi’  hissing,  eerie  din ; 

Athort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift. 

Like  fortune’s  favors,  tint  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I turn’d  mine  eyes, 

And  by  the  moon-beam,  shook,  to  see 

A stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise, 

Attir’d  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

Had  I a statue  been  o’  stane, 

His  darin  look  had  daunted  me : 

And  on  his  bonnet  grav’d  was  plain, 

The  sacred  posy — Libertie  ! 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow, 

Might  rous’d  the  slumbering  dead  to  hear ; 

But  oh,  it  was  a tale  of  wo, 

As  ever  met  a Briton's  ear ! 

He  sang  wi’  joy  his  former  day, 

He  weeping  wail’d  his  latter  tines ; 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play, 

I winna  ventur’t  in  my  rhymes. 


COPY 

OF  A POETICAL  ADDRESS 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  TYTLER, 

With  the  present  of  the  Bard's  Picture. 

Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 

Of  Stuart,  a name  once  respected,  [heart, 
A name,  which  to  love  was  the  mark  of  a true 
But  now  ’tis  despised  and  neglected. 

Tho’  something  like  moisture  conglobes  in  my 
eye, 

Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal ; [sigh, 
A poor  friendless  wand’rer  may  well  claim  a 
Still  more,  if  that  wand’rer  were  royal. 

My  fathers  that  name  have  rever’d  on  a throne ; 

My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it ; 

Those  fathers  would  spurn  their  degenerate  son, 
T.hat  name  should  he  scoffingly  slight  it. 

Still  in  prayers  for  K — G — I most  heartly  join. 
The  Q — , and  the  rest  of  the  gentry, 

Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of  mine; 
Their  title’s  avow’d  by  my  country. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


89 


But  why  of  this  epocha  make  such  a fuss, 

3 * * * * * 

* * * * 
***** 

But  loyalty,  truce  ! we’er  on  dangerous  ground, 
Who  knows  how  the  fashions  may  alter  ? 

The  doctrine,  to-day,  that  is  loyalty  sound, 
To-morrow  may  bring  us  a halter. 

I send  you  a trifle,  a head  of  a bard, 

A trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care  ; 

But  accept  it,  good  Sir,  as  a mark  of  regard, 
Sincere  as  a saint’s  dying  prayer. 

Now  lifers  chilly  evening  dim  shades  on  your 
And  ushers  the  long  dreary  night ; [eye, 

But  you,  like  the  star  that  athwart  gilds  the  sky, 
Your  course  to  the  latest  is  bright. 


CALEDONIA. 

Tune — Caledonian  Hunt’s  Delight.”  m 

There  was  once  a day,  but  old  Time  then  was 
young. 

That  brave  Caledonia,  the  chief  of  her  line, 

From  some  of  your  northern  deities  sprung, 
(Who  knows  not  that  brave  Caledonia’s  di- 
vine ?) 

From  Tweed  to  the  Orcades  was  her  domain, 
To  hunt,  or  to  pasture,  or  do  what  she  would : 

Her  heavenly  relations  there  fixed  her  reign, 
And  pledg’d  her  their  godheads  to  warrant  it 
good. 

A lambkin  in  peace,  but  a lion  in  war, 

The  pride  of  her  kindred,  the  heroine  grew : 

Her  grandsire,  old  Odin,  triumphantly  swore, 

“ Whoe’er  shall  provoke  thee,  th’  encounter 
shall  rue !” 

With  tillage  or  pasture  at  times  she  would  sport, 
To  feed  her  fair  flocks  by  her  green  rustling 
corn  ? 

But  chiefly  the  woods  were  her  fav’rite  resort. 
Her  darling  amusement,  the  hounds  and  the 
horn. 

Long  quiet  she  reign’d  ; till  thitherward  steers 
A flight  of  bold  eagles  from  Adria’s  strand : 

Repeated,  successive,  for  many  long  years, 
They  darken’d  the  air,  and  they  plunder’d  the 
land : 

Their  pounces  were  murder,  and  terror  their  cry, 
They’d  conquer’d  and  ruin’d  a world  beside  ; 

She  took  to  her  hills,  and  her  arrows  let  fly, 
The  daring  invaders  they  fled  or  they  died. 

The  fell  Harpy-raven  took  wing  from  the  north, 
The  scourge  of  the  seas,  and  the  dread  of  the 
shore ; 

The  wild  Scandinavian  boar  issu’d  forth 
To  wanton  in  carnage  and  wallow  in  gore: 

O’er  countries  and  kingdoms  the  fury  prevail’d, 
No  arts  could  appease  them,  no  arms  could 
repel ; 

But  brave  Caledonia  in  vain  they  assail’d, 

As  Largs  well  can  witness,  and  Loncartie  tell. 

The  Chameleon-savage  disturb’d  her  repose, 
With  tumult,  disquiet,  rebellion  and  strife; 

Provok’d  beyond  bearing,  at  last  she  arose, 
And  robb’d  him  at  once  of  his  hopes  and  his 
life: 


The  Anglian  lion,  the  terror  of  France, 

Oft  prowling,  ensanguin’d  the  Tweed's  sil- 
ver flood ; 

But,  taught  by  the  bright  Caledonian  lance. 

He  learned  to  fear  in  his  own  native  wood. 

Thus  bold,  independent,  unconquer’d,  and  free. 
Her  bright  course  of  glory  forever  shall  run, 

For  brave  Caledonia  immortal  must  be  ; 

I’ll  prove  it  from  Euclid  as  clear  as  the  sun ; 

Rectangle-triangle,  the  figure  we’ll  choose, 

The  upright  is  Chance,  and  old  Time  is  the 
base ; 

But  brave  Caledonia’s  the  hypotenuse  ; 

Then  ergo,  she’ll  match  them,  and  match  them 
always. 


THE  following  Poem  was  written  to  a Gentle- 
man who  had  sent  him  a Newspaper , and  off- 
ered to  continue  it  free  of  Expense. 

Kind  Sir,  I’ve  read  your  paper  through, 

And  faith  to  me,  ’twas  really  new  ! 

How  guessed  ye,  Sir,  what  maist  I wanted  ? 
This  mony  a day  I’ve  grain’d  and  gaunted, 

To  ken  what  French  mischief  was  brewin  ; 

Or  what  the  drumlie  Dutch  were  doin  ; 

That  vile  doup-skelper,  Emperor  Joseph, 

If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  nose  off ; 

Or  how  the  collieshangie  works 
Atween  the  Russians  and  the  Turks  ; 

Or  if  the  Swede,  before  he  halt, 

Would  play  anither  Charles  the  twalt: 

If  Denmark,  any  body  spak  o’t ; 

Or  Poland,  wha  had  now  the  tack  o’t ; _ 

How  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  were  hingin, 
How  libbet  Italy  was  singin  ; 

If  Spaniard,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss, 

Were  say  in  or  takin  aught  amiss: 

Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  hame, 

In  Britain’s  court  kept  up  the  game  : 

How  Royal  George,  the  Lord  leuk  o’er  him ! 
Was  managing  St.  Stephen’s  quorum  ; 

If  sleekit  Chatham  Will  was  liven, 

Or  glaikit  Charlie  got  his  nieve  in  ; 

How  daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cookin, 

If  Warren  Hasting’s  neck  was  yeukin  ; 

How  cesses,  stents,  and  fees  were  rax’d, 

Or  if  bare  a — s yet  were  tax’d; 

The  news  o’  princes,  dukes,  and  earls, 

Pimps,  sharpers,  bawds,  and  opera-girls  ; 

If  that  daft  buckie,  Geordie  W***s, 

Was  threshin  still  at  hizzies’  tails, 

Or  if  he  was  grown  oughtlins  douser, 

And  no  a perfect  kintra  cooser, 

A’  this  and  mair  I never  heard  of ; 

And  but  for  you  I might  despaired  of. 

So  gratefu’,  back  your  news  I send  you, 

And  pray,  a’  guid  things  may  attend  you. 
Ellisland,  Monday  Morning , 1790. 


POEM  ON  PASTORAL  POETRY. 

Hail,  Poesie  ! thou  N ymph  reserv'd ! 

In  chase  o’  thee,  what  crowds  hae  swerv’d 
Frae  common  sense,  or  sunk  ennerv’d 

’Mang  heaps  o’  clavers; 
And  och ! o’er  aft  thy  joes  hae  starv’d, 

’Mid  a’  thy  favors ! 


90 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Say,  lassie,  why  thy  tram  amang, 

While  loud  the  trump’s  heroic  clang, 

And  sock  and  buskin  skelp  alang 

To  death  or  marriage ; 
Scarce  ane  has  tried  the  shepherd-sang 

But  wi’  miscarriage  ? 

In  Homer’s  craft  Jock  Milton  thrives, 
Eschylus’  pen  Will  Shakspeare  drives; 

Wee  Pope,  the  knurlin,  till  him  rives 
Horatian  fame ; 

In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barhauld,  survives 

Even  Sappho’s  flame. 

But  thee.  Theocritus,  wha  matches? 

They’re  no  herd’s  ballats,  Maro’s  catches  : 
Squire  Pope  but  busks  his  skinklin  patches 
O’  heathen  tatters : 

I pass  by  hunders,  nameless  wretches, 

That  ape  their  betters. 

In  this  braw  age  o’  wit  and  lea, 

Will  nane  the  shepherd’s  whistle  mair 
Blaw  sweetly,  in  its  native  air 

And  rural  grace ; 

And  wi’  the  far-fam’d  Grecian,  share 
A rival  place  ? 

Yes!  there  is  ane — a Scottish  callan  ! 
There’s  ane  ; come  forrit,  honest  Allan~! 
Thou  needna  jouk  behint  the  hallan, 

A chiel  sae  clever ; 
The  teeth  o’  Time  may  gnaw  Tamtallan, 

But  thou ’s  forever. 

Thou  paints  auld  Nature  to  the  nines, 

In  thy  sweet  Caledonian  lines  ; 

Nae  gowden  stream  thro’  myrtle  twines, 
Where  Philomel, 
While  nightly  breezes  sweep  the  vines, 

Her  griefs  will  tell ! 

In  gowany  glens  thy  burnie  strays, 

Where  bonnie  lasses  bleach  their  claes  ; 

Or  trots  by  hazelly  shaws  and  braes, 

Wi’  hawthorns  gray, 
Where  blackbirds  join  the  shepherd’s  lays 
At  close  o’  day. 

Thy  rural  loves  are  nature’s  sel ; 

Nae  bombast  spates  o’  nonsense  swell ; 

Nae  snap  conceits,  but  that  sweet  spell 
O’  witchin  love, 

That  charm  that  can  the  strongest  quell ; 

The  sternest  move. 


ON  THE 

BATTLE  OF  SHERIFF-MUIR, 

Between  the  Duke  of  Argyle  and  the  Earl  of  Mar. 

“ O cam  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun, 

Or  herd  the  sheep  wi’  me,  man  ? 

Or  were  ye  at  the  sherra-muir, 

And  did  the  battle  see,  man  ?” 

I saw  the  battle,  sair  and  tough, 

And  reekin-red  ran  mony  a sheugh, 

My  heart,  for  fear,  gae  sough  for  sough, 

To  hear  the  thuds,  and  see  the  cluds, 

O’  clans  frae  woods,  in  tartan  duds, 

Wha  glaum’d  at  kingdoms  three,  man. 

The  red-coat  lads  wi’  black  cockades, 

To  meet  them  were  na  slaw,  man  ; 


They  rush’d  and  push’d,  and  blude  outgush’d, 
And  mony  a bouk  did  fa’,  man : 

The  great  Argyle  led  on  his  files, 

I wat  they  glanced  twenty  miles  : 

They  hack’d  and  hash’d,  while  broad-sworda 
clash’d, 

And  thro’  they  dash’d,  and  hew’d  and  smash’d, 
Tiil  fey-men  died  awa,  man. 

But  had  you  seen  the  philibegs, 

And  skyrin  tartan  trews,  man, 

When  in  the  teeth  they  dar’d  our  whigs, 

And  covenant  true  blues,  man  ; 

In  lines  extended  lang  and  large, 

When  bayonets  oppos’d  the  targe, 

And  thousands  hasten’d  to  the  charge, 

Wi’  Highland  wrath,  they  frae  the  sheath 
Drew  blades  o’  death,  till,  out  o’  breath, 

They  fled  like  frighted  doos,  man. 

“ O how  deil,  Tam,  can  that  be  true  ? 

The  chase  gaed  frae  the  north,  man ; 

I saw  myself,  they  did  pursue 

The  horsemen  back  to  Forth,  man  ; 

And  at  Dumblane,  in  my  ain  sight, 

They  took  the  brig  wi’  a’  their  might, 

And  straught  to  Stirling  wing’d  their  flight ; 
But,  cursed  lot  1 the  gates  were  shut, 

And  mony  a huntit,  poor  red-coat, 

For  fear  amaist  did  swarf,  man.” 

My  sister  Kate  cam  up  the  gate 
Wi’  crowdie  unto  me,  man  ; 

She  swore  she  saw  some  rebels  run 
Frae  Perth  unto  Dundee,  man  ; 

Their  left-hand  general  had  nae  skill, 

The  Angus  lads  had  nae  good  will 
That  day  their  neebors’  blood  to  spill; 

For  fear  by  foes,  that  they  should  lose 
Their  cogs  o’  brose  ; all  crying  woes, 

And  so  it  goes  you  see,  man. 

They’ve  lost  some  gallant  gentlemen, 

Amang  the  Highland  clans,  man  ; 

I fear  my  lord  Panmure  is  slain, 

Or  fallen  in  whiggish  hands,  man : 

Now  wad  ye  sing  this  double  fight, 

Some  fell  for  wrang,  and  some  for  right; 

But  mony  bid  the  world  guid-night ; 

Then  ye  may  tell,  how  pell  and  mell, 

By  red  claymores,  and  muskets’  knell, 

Wi’  dying  yell,  the  tories  fell, 

And  whigs  to  hell  did  flee,  man. 


SKETCH.- NE  W-YE  A R’S  DAY. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

This  day,  Time  winds  th’  exhausted  chain, 
To  run  the  twelvemonth’s  length  again: 

I see  the  old,  bald-pated  fellow. 

With  ardent  eyes,  complexion  sallow, 
Adjust  the  unimpair’d  machine, 

To  wheel  the  equal,  dull  routine. 

The  absent  lover,  minor  heir, 

In  vain  assail  him  with  their  prayer, 

Deaf  as  my  friend,  he  sees  them  press, 

Nor  makes  the  hour  one  moment  less. 

Will  you  (the  Major’s  with  the  hounds  ; 

The  happy  tenants  share  his  rounds  ; 
Coila’s  fair  Rachel’s  care  to-day, 

And  blooming  Keith’s  engaged  with  Gray) 


BURNS 


POEMS. 


91 


From  housewife  cares  a minute  borrow — 
That  grandchild's  cap  will  do  to-morrow — 
And  join  with  me  a-moralizing, 

This  day’s  propitious  to  be  wise  in. 

First,  what  did  yesternight  deliver  ? 

“ Another  year  is  gone  forever." 

And  what  is  this  day's  strong  suggestion  ? 
“ The  passing  moment ’s  all  we  rest  on  !” 
Rest  on — for  what  ? what  do  we  here  ? 

Or  why  regard  the  passing  year  ? 

Will  Time,  amus’d  with  proverb ’d  lore, 
Add  to  our  date  one  minute  more  ? 

A few  days  may — a few  years  must — 
Repose  us  in  the  silent  dust. 

Then  is  it  wise  to  damp  our  bliss  ? 

Yes — all  such  reasonings  are  amiss  ! 

The  voice  of  nature  loudly  cries, 

And  mony  a message  from  the  skies, 

That  something  in  us  never  dies  : 

That  on  this  frail,  uncertain  state, 

Hang  matters  of  eternal  weight  ; 

That  future  life  in  worlds  unknown 
Must  take  its  hue  from  this  alone  ; 
Whether  as  heavenly  glory  bright, 

Or  dark  as  misery’s  woful  night. — 

Since  then,  my  honor’d,  first  of  friends, 

On  this  poor  being  all  depends ; 

Let  us  th’  important  now  employ, 

And  live  as  those  that  never  die. 

Tho’  you,  with  day  and  honors  crown’d, 
Witness  that  filial  circle  round, 

(A  sight  life’s  sorrows  to  repulse, 

A sight  pale  envy  to  convulse,) 

Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard: 
Yourself,  you  wait  your  bright  reward. 


EXTEMPORE , on  the  late  Mr.  William  Smel- 
lie,  Author  of  the  Philosophy  of  Natural  His- 
tory, and  Member  of  the  Antiquarian  and  Roy- 
al Societies  of  Edinburgh. 

To  Crochallan  came, 

The  old  cock’d  hat,  the  gray  surtout,  the  same ; 

His  bristling  beard  just  rising  in  its  might, 

’Twas  four  long  nights  ana  days  to  shaving- 
night, 

His  uncombed  grizzly  locks  wild  staring, thatch’d 

A head  for  thought  profound  and  clear,  un- 
match’d ; 

Yet  tho’  his  caustic  wit  was  bitting,  rude, 

His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent,  and  good. 


POETICALINSCRIPTlONfor  an  Altar  to 
Independence,  at  Kerrouglitry,  the  Seat  of  Mr. 
Heron  ; written  in  summer,  1795. 

Thou  of  an  independent  mind, 

With  soul  resolv’d,  with  soul  resign’d : 
Prepar’d  Power’s  proudest  frown  to  brave, 
Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have  a slave  : 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere, 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear, 

Approach  this  shrine,  and  woship  here. 


SONNET, 

OM  THK 

DEATH  OF  ROBERT  RIDDEL,  ESq. 

OF  GLEN  RIDDEL,  APRIL,  1794. 

No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no  more, 
Nor  pour  your  descant,  grating,  on  my  soul; 
Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  thy  verdant 
stole,  [est  roar. 

More  welcome  were  to  me  grim  Winter’s  wild- 

How  can  ye  charm,  ye  flow’rs,  with  all  your 
dyes  ? 

Ye  blow  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my  friend ; 
How  can  I to  the  tuneful  strain  attend  ? 

That  strain  flows  round  th’  untimely  tomb 
where  Riddel  lies. 

Yes,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of  wo, 
And  soothe  the  Virtues  weeping  on  this  bier: 
The  Man  of  Worth,  and  has  not  left  his  peer, 
Is  in  his  “ narrow  house’’  forever  darkly  low. 

Thee,  Spring,  again  with  joy  shall  others  greet ; 
Me,  mem’ry  of  my  loss  will  only  meet. 


MONODY 

ON  A 

LADY  FAMED  FOR  HER  CAPRICE. 

How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly  once  fir’d  ! 
How  pale  is  that  cheek  where  the  rouge  late- 
ly glisten’d  ! 

How  silent  that  tongue  which  the  echoes  oft  tir’d! 
How  dull  is  that  ear  which  to  flattery  so  lis- 
ten’d ! 

If  sorrow  and  anguish  their  exit  await. 

From  friendship  and  dearest  affection  remov’d; 
How  doubly  severer,  Eliza,  thy  fate, 

Thou  diedst  unwept  as  thou  livedst  unlov’d. 

Loves,  Graces,  and  Virtues,  I call  not  on  you ; 

So  shy,  grave,  and  distant,  ye  shed  not  a tear : 
But  come,  all  yc  offspring  of  folly  so  true, 

And  flowers  let  U3  cull  for  Eliza’s  cold  bier. 

We’ll  search  thro’  the  garden  for  each  silly 
flower, 

We’ll  roam  thro’  the  forest  for  each  idle  weed ; 
But  chiefly  the  nettie,  so  typical,  shower, 

For  none  e’er  approach’d  her  but  ru’d  the  rash 
deed. 

We’ll  sculpture  the  marble,  we’ll  measure  the 
Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  lyre  ; [lay ; 
There  keen  Indignation  shall  dart  on  her  prey, 
Which  spurning  Contempt  shall  redeem  from 
his  ire. 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  lies,  now  a prey  to  insulting  neglect, 
What  once  was  a butterfly,  gay  in  life’s  beam : 
Want  only  of  wisdom,  denied  her  respect, 
Want  only  of  goodness,  denied  her  esteem. 


( 


92 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


ANSWER  to  a Mandate  sent  by  the  Stirveyor 
of  the  Windows,  Carriages,  (fc,  to  each  Par- 
mer, ordering  him  to  send  a.  signed  List,  of  his 
Horses , Servants,  Wheel-Carriages,  <$*e.,  and 
whether  he  was  a married  Man  or  a Bachelor, 
and  what  Children  they  had. 

Sir,  as  your  mandate  did  request, 

I send  you  here  a faithfu’  list, 

My  horses,  servants,  carts,  and  graith, 

To  which  I’m  free  to  tak  my  aith. 

Imprimis,  then,  for  carriage  cattle, 

I hae  four  brutes  o’  gallant  mettle, 

As  ever  drew  before  a pettle. 

My  hand  afore,  a guid  auld  has-been, 

And  wight  and  willfu’  a’  his  days  seen  ; 

My  hand,  a hm,  a guid  brown  filly, 

Wha  aft  hae  borne  me  safe  frae  Killie, 

And  your  old  borough  mony  a time, 

In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime  : 

My  fur  a hin,  a guid  gray  beast, 

As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  trac’d  : 

The  fourth,  a Highland  Donald  hasty, 

A d-mn’d  red-wud,  Kilburnie  blastie, 

For-by  a cowt,  of  cowts  the  wale, 

As  ever  ran  before  a tail ; 

An’  he  be  spar’d  to  be  a beast, 

He’ll  draw  me  fifteen  pund  at  least. 

Wheel-carriages  I hae  but  few, 

Three  carts,  and  twa  are  feckly  new  ; 

An  auld  wheel-barrow,  mair  for  token, 

Ae  leg  and  baith  the  trams  are  broken ; 

I made  a poker  o’  the  spindle, 

And  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trundle. 

For  men,  l’tfe  three  mischievous  boys, 
Run-deils-for  rantin  and  for  noise  ; 

A gadsman  ane,  a thrasher  t’other, 

Wee  Davoc  hands  the  nowte  in  fother. 

I rule  them,  as  I ought  ^discreetly, 

And  often  labor  them  completely, 

And  ay  on  Sundays  duly  nightly, 

I on  the  questions  tairge  them  tightly, 

Till  faith  wee  Davoc’s  grown  sae  gleg, 

(Tho’  scarcely  langer  than  my  leg,) 

He’ll  screed  you  off  effectual  calling, 

As  fast  as  ony  in  the  dwalling. 

I’ve  nane  in  female  servant  station, 

Lord  keep  me  ay  frae  a’  temptation  ! 

I hae  nae  wife,  and  that  my  bliss  is, 

And  ye  hae  laid  nae  tax  on  misses  ; 

For  weans  I’m  mair  than  well  contented, 
Heaven  sent  me  ane  mair  than  I wanted ; 

My  sonsie,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess, 

She  stares  the  daddie  in  her  face, 

Enough  of  aught  ye  like  but  grace. 

But  her,  my  bonnie.  sweet,  wee  lady, 

I’ve  said  enough  for  her  already, 

And  if  ye  tax  her  or  her  mither, 

By  the  L — d,  ye’se  get  them  a’  thegither ! 

And  now,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken, 

Nae  kind  of  license  out  I’m  taking. 

Thro’  dirt  and  dub  for  life  I’ll  paddle, 

Ere  I sae  dear  pay  for  a saddle  ; 

I’ve  sturdy  stumps,  the  Lord  be  thanked ! 
And  a’  my  gates  on  foot  I’ll  shank  it. 

This  list  wi’  my  ain  hand  I’ve  wrote  it, 

The  day  and  date  is  under  noted ; 

Then  know,  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Subscripsi  huic, 

Robert  Burns. 
Mossgiel,  22 d Feb.  1786. 


SONG. 

Nae  gentle  dames,  tho’  e’er  sae  fair, 
Shall  ever  be  my  muse’s  care; 

Their  titles  a’  are  empty  show  ; 

Gie  me  my  Highland  lassie;  O. 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  0, 

Aboon  the  plain  sae  rushy,  0, 

I set  me  down  wi'  right  good  will ; 

To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  0. 

Oh,  were  yon  hills  and  valleys  mine, 
Yon  palace  and  yon  gardens  fine  ! 

The  world  then  the  love  should  know 
I bear  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen,  #c. 

But  fickle  fortune  frowns  on  me, 

And  I maun  cross  the  raging  sea ; 

But  while  my  crimson  currents  flow 
I love  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen,  fyc. 

Altho’  thro’  foreign  climes  I range, 

I know  her  heart  will  never  change, 

For  her  bosom  burns  with  honor’s  glow, 
My  faithful  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen,  fy-c. 

For  her  I’ll  dare  the  billow’s  roar, 

For  her  I’ll  trace  a distant  shore, 

That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  throw 
Around  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen,  fyc. 

She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  hand, 

By  sacred  truth  and  honor’s  band ! 

Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 
I’m  thine,  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Farewell,  the  glen  sae  bushy,  0 ! 
Farewell,  the  plain  sae  rushy,  0 ! 
To  other  lands  1 now  must  go, 

To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  0 ! 


I MPROMTU, 

ON  MRS.  ’S  BIRTHDAY, 

NOVEMBER  4,  1793. 

Old  Winter,  with  his  frosty  beard, 

Thus  once  to  Jove  his  prayer  preferr’d  ; 
What  have  I done,  of  all  the  year, 

To  bear  this  hated  doom  severe  ? 

My  cheerless  suns  no  pleasure  know  ; 
Night’s  horrid  car  drags,  dreary,  slow  ; 

My  dismal  months  no  joys  are  crowning. 

But  spleeny  English,  hanging,  drowning. 

Now,  Jove,  for  once  be  mighty  civil, 

To  counterbalance  all  this  evil ; 

Give  me,  and  I’ve  no  more  to  say, 

Give  me  Maria’s  natal  day  ! 

That  brilliant  gift  will  so  enrich  me, 

Spring,  summer,  autumn,  cannot  match  me. 
’Tis  done  ! says  Jove  ; so  ends  my  story, 
And  Winter  once  rejoiced  in  glory. 


ADDRESS  TO  A LADY. 

Oh,  w'ert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea ; 


BURNS’ 

My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I’d  shelter  thee,  I’d  sheller  thee  ; 

Or  did  misfortune’s  bitter  storms 
Around  thee  blavv,  around  thee  blaw, 

Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a’,  to  share  it  a’. 

Or  were  I in  the  wildest  waste. 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare, 
The  desert  were  a paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  were  there. 

Or  were  I monarch  o’  the  globe, 

Wi’  thee  to  reign,  wi’  thee  to  reign, 

The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown, 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 


TO  A YOUNG  LADY, 

MISS  JESSY  , DUMFRIES  J 

With  Boohs  which  the  Bard  presented  her. 

Thine  be  the  volumes,  Jessy  fair, 

And  with  them  take  the  poet’s  prayer; 
That  fate  may  in  her  fairest  page, 

With  every  kindliest,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss,  enroll  thy  name, 

With  native  worth  and  spotless  fame, 
And  wakeful  caution  still  aware 
Of  ill — but  chief,  man!s  felon  snare  ; 

All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  find, 

And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind — 
These  be  thy  guardian  and  reward  ; 

So  prays  thy  faithful  friend,  the  Bard. 


S ONNET,  written  on  the  25th  of  January,  1793, 
the  Birth-day  of  the  Author,  on  hearing  a 
Thrush  sing  in  a morning  Walk. 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough  : 
Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I listen  to  thy  strain  : 
See  aged  Winter,  ’mid  his  surly  reign, 

At  thy  blithe  carol  clears  his  furrow’d  brow. 

So  in  lone  Poverty’s  dominion  drear; 

Sits  meek  Content,  with  light  unanxious 
heart,  ■■  [part, 

Welcomes  the  rapid  moments,  bids  them 
Nor  asks  if  they  bring  augM  to  hope  or  fear. 

I thank  thee,  Author  of  this  opening  day ! 
Thou  whose  bright  sun  nowlgilds  yon  orient 
skies  ! 

Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys, 
What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take  away  ! 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care, 

The  mite  high  Heaven  bestow’d,  that  mite 
with  thee  I’ll  share. 


EX  TEMP  ORE,  to  Mr.  S**E,  on  refusing  to 
Dine  with  him,  after  having  been  promised  the 
first  of  Company,  and  the  first  of  Cookery,  17  th 
December,  1795. 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or  not, 
And  cook’ry  the  first  in  the  nation  ; 

Who  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse  and  wit, 
Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 


POEMS.  93 

To  Mr.  S**E,  with  a Present  of  a Dozen  of 
Porter. 

O,  had  the  malt  thy  strength  of  mind, 

Or  hops  the  flavor  of  thy  wit, 

’Twere  drink  for  first  of  human  kind, 

A gift  that  e’en  lor  S**e  were  fit. 
Jerusalem  Tavern , Dumfries. 


THE  DUMFRIES  VOLUNTEERS. 

Tune — “ Push  about  the  Jorum.” 

April,  1795. 

Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat  ? 

Then  let  the  loons  beware,  Sir, 

There’s  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas, 

And  volunteers  on  shore,  Sir. 

The  Nith  shall  run  to  Corsincon, 

And  Criffel  sink  in  Solway, 

Ere  we  permit  a foreign  foe 
On  British  ground  to  rally  ! 

Fall  de  rail,  (J-c. 

0 let  us  not,  like  snarling  tykes, 

In  wrangling  be  divided  ; 

Till  slap  come  in  an  unco  loon, 

And  wi’  a rung  decide  it. 

Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true, 

1 Amang  oursels  united  ; 

For  never  but  by  British  hands 
Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted. 

Fall  de  rail,  fyc. 

The  kettle  o’  the  kirk  and  state, 

Perhaps  a claut  may  fail  in’t ; 

But  deil  a foreign  tinkler  loun 
Shall  ever  ca’  a nail  in’t. 

Our  fathers’  bluid  the  kettle  bought, 

And  wha  wad  dare  to  spoil  it ; 

•By  heaven,  the  sacrilegious  dog 
Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it ! 

Fall  de  rail,  CyC. 

The  wretch  that  would  a tyrant  own, 

And  the  wretch  his  true-born  brother, 

Who  would  set  the  mob  ahoon  the  throne , 
May  they  be  damn’d  together  ! 

Who  will  not  sing,  “ God  save  the  King,” 
Shall  hang  as  high’s  the  steeple  ; 

But  while  we  sing,  “ God  save  the  King,” 
We’ll  ne’er  forget  the  People. 

Fall  de  rail,  SyC. 


POEM, 

ADDRESSED  TO  MR.  MITCHELL,  COLLECTOR  OF 
EXCISE,  DUMFRIES,  1796. 

Friend  of  the  Poet,  tried  and  leal, 

Wha  wanting  thee,  might  beg  or  steal; 
Alake,  alake,  the  meikle  deil 

Wi’  a’  his  witches, 

Are  at  it,  skelpin,  jig  and  reel, 

In  my  poor  pouches. 

I modestly  fu’  fain  wad  hint  it, 

That  one  pound  one,  I sairly  want  it : 

If  wi’  the  hizzie  down  you  sent  it, 

It  would  be  kind  ; 

And  while  my  heart  wi’  life-blood  dunted, 

I’d  bear ’t  in  mind. 


94 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


So  may  the  auld  year  gang  out  moaning, 

To  see  the  new  come  laden,  groaning, 

Wi’  double  plenty  o’er  the  loanin 

To  thee  and  thine  ; 

Domestic  peace  and  comforts  crowning 
The  hale  design. 

postscript/ 

Ye’ve  heard  this  while  how  I’ve  been  licket, 
And  by  fell  death  was  nearly  nicket : 

Grim  loun ! he  gat  me  by  the  fecket, 

And  sair  me  sheuk  ; 

But  by  guid  luck  I lap  a wicket, 

And  turn’d  a neuk. 

But  by  that  health  I’re  got  a share  o’t, 

And  by  that  life.  I’m  promis’d  mair  o’t, 

My  hale  and  weel  I’ll  take  a care  o’t 
A fentier  way ; 

Then  farewell  folly,  hide  and  hair  o’t, 

For  ance  and  aye. 


Sent  to  a Gentleman  whom  he  had  offended. 

The  friend  whom  wild  from  wisdom’s  way, 
The  fumes  of  wine  infuriate  send  ; 

(Not  moony  madness  more  astray) 

Who  but  deplores  that  hapless  friend  ? 

Mine  was  th’  insensate  frenzied  part. 

Ah  why  should  I such  scenes  outlive  ! 
Scenes  so  abhorrent  to  my  heart ! 

’Tis  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 


POEM  ON  LIFE. 

ADDRESSED  TO  COLONEL  DE  TEYSTER, 
DUMFRIES,  1796. 

My  honor’d  colonel,  deep  I feel 
Your  interest  in  the  Poet’s  weal ; 

Ah ! now  sma’  heart  hae  I to  speel 

The  steep  Parnassus, 
Surrounded  thus  by  bolus  pill, 

And  potion  glasses. 

O what  a canty  warld  were  it, 

Would  pain  and  care,  and  sickness  spare  it ; 
And  fortune  favor  worth  and  merit, 

As  they  deserve : 

(And  aye  a rowth,  roast  beef  and  claret ; 

Syne  wha  wad  starve  ?) 

Dame  Life,  tho’  fiction  out  may  trick  her, 
And  in  paste  gems  and  frippery  deck  her ; 
Oh  ! flickering,  feeble,  and  unsicker 

I’ve  found  her  still, 

Ay  wavering  like  the  willow  wicker 

’Tween  good  and  ill. 

Then  that  curst  carmagnole,  auld  Satan, 
Watches,  like  baudrans  by  a rattan, 

Our  sinfu’  saul  to  get  a claut  on 
Wi’  felon  ire ; 

Syne  whip!  his  tail  ye’ll  ne’er  cast  saut  on, 
He’s  off  like  fire. 

Ah  Nick  ! ah  Nick  ! it  is  na  fair, 

First  showing  us  the  tempting  ware, 

Bright  wines  and  bonnie  lasses  rare, 

To  put  us  daft ; 


Syne  weave,  unseen,  thy  spider  snare 

O’  hell’s  damn’d  waft. 

Poor  man,  the  flie  aft  bizzes  by, 

And  aft  as  chance  he  comes  thee  nigh, 

Thy  auld  damn’d  elbow  yeuks  wi’  joy, 

And  hellish  pleasure ; 
Already  in  thy  fancy’s  eye, 

Thy  sicker  treasure. 

Soon,  heels  o’er  gowdie  ! in  he  gangs, 

And  like  a sheep-head  on  a tangs, 

Thy  girning  laugh  enjoys  his  pangs 

And  murdering  wrestle, 
As  dangling  in  the  wind,  he  hangs 

A gibbet’s  tassel. 

But  lest  you  think  I am  uncivil. 

To  plague  you  with  this  draunting  drivel, 
Abjuring  a’  intentions  evil, 

I quat  my  pen  : 

The  Lord  preserve  us  frae  the  devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  TOOTH-AOHE 

My  curse  upon  thy  venom’ d stang, 

That  shoots  my  tortur’d  gums  alang ; 

And  thro’  my  lugs  gies  mony  a twang, 

Wi’  gnawing  vengeance ; 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi’  bitter  pang, 

Like  racking  engines ! 

When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  colic  squeezes ; 

Our  neighbor’s  sympathy  may  ease  us, 

Wi’  pitying  moan  : 

But  thee — thou  hell  o’  a’  diseases, 

Ay  mocks  our  groan ! 

Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle  ! 

I throw  the  wee  stools  o’er  the  mickle, 

As  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle, 

To  see  me  loup  ; 

While  raving  mad,  I wish  a heckle 
Were  in  their  doup. 

O’  a’  the  num’rous  human  dools, 

111  har’s'ts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools, 

Or  worthy  friends  rak’d  i’  the  mools, 

Sad  sight  to  see  ! 

The  tricks  o’  knaves,  or  fash  o’  fools, 

Thou  bear’st  the  gree. 

Where’er  that  place  be  priests  ca’  hell, 
Whence  a’  the  tones  o’  mis’ry  yell, 

And  rankluplagues  their  numbers  tell, 

In  dreadfu’  raw, 

Thou,  Tooth-ache,  surely  bear’st  the  bell 
Amang  them  a’ ! 

O thou  grim,  mischief-making  chiel. 

That  gars  the  notes  of  discord  squeel, 

Till  daft  mankind  aft  dance  a reel 

In  gore  a shoe-thick  ; — 
Gie  a’  the  faes  o’  Scotland’s  weal 

A towmond’s  Tooth-ache 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Morag.” 

0 wiia  is  she  that  lo’es  me 
And  has  my  heart  a-keeping  ? 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


95 


O sweet  is  she  that  lo’es  me, 

As  dews  o’  simmer  weeping, 

In  tears  the  rose-buds  steeping. 

CHORUS. 

0 that's  the  lassie  o'  my  heart, 

My  lassie  ever  dearer  ; 

0 that's  the  queen  o'  womankind, 

A nd  ne'er  a ane  to  peer  her. 

If  thou  shalt  meet  a lassie, 

In  grace  and  beauty  charming, 
That  e’en  thy  chosen  lassie, 

Ere  while  thy  breast  sae  warming, 
Had  ne’er  sic  powers  alarming. 

0 that's,  <$*c. 

If  thou  hadst  heard  her  talking, 

And  thy  attentions  plighted, 

That  ilka  body  talking, 

But  her  by  thee  is  slighted, 

And  thou  art  all  delighted. 

0 that's,  <$*c. 

If  thou  hast  met  this  fair  one  ; 

When  frae  her  thou  hast  parted, 

If  every  other  fair  one, 

But  her  thou  hast  deserted, 

And  thou  art  broken-hearted, — 

0 that's,  dec. 


SONG. 

Jockey’s  ta’en  the  parting  kiss, 

O’er  the  mountains  he  is  gane  ; 

And  with  him  is  a’  my  bliss, 

Nought  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 

Spare  my  luve,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 
Plashy  sleets  and  beating  rain ; 

Spare  my  luve,  thou  featheVy  snaw, 
Drifting  o’er  the  frozen  plain. 

When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 
O’er  the  day’s  fair,  gladsome  e’e, 

Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep, 
Sweetly  blithe  his  waukening  be  ! 

He  will  think  on  her  he  loves, 

Fondly  he’ll  repeat  her  name; 

For  where’er  he  distant  roves, 
Jocky’s  heart  is  still  at  hame. 


SONG. 

My  Peggy’s  face,  my  Peggy’s  form, 
The  frost  of  hermit  age  might  warm  ; 
My  Peggy’s  worth,  my  Peggy’s  mind, 
Might  charm  the  first  of  human  kind. 

I love  my  Peggy’s  angel  air. 

Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair, 

Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art ; 

But  I adore  my  Peggy’s  heart. 

The  lily’s  hue,  the  rose’s  dye, 

The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye  ; 

Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway, 

Who  but  knows  they  all  decay  ! 

The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear, 

The  generous  purpose,  nobly  dear, 

The  gentle  look,  that  rage  disarms, 
These  are  all  immortal  charms. 


WRITTEN  in  a Wrapper  enclosing  a Letter 
to  Capt.  Grose,  to  be  left  with  Mr.  Cardonnel, 
Antiquarian. 

Tune — “ Sir  John  Malcolm.” 

Ken  ye  aught  o’  Captain  Grose  ? 

Igo,  4*  ago, 

If  he’s  amang  his  friends  or  foes  ? 

Jram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  South,  or  is  he  North  ? 

Igo,  4*  ago. 

Or  drowned  in  the  river  Forth  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  slain  by  Highland  bodies  ? 

Igo,  4-  ago. 

And  eaten  like  a weather-haggis  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  to  Abram’s  bosom  gane  ? 

Igo,  4*  ago, 

Or  haudin  Sarah  by  the  wame  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Where’er  he  be,  the  Lord  be  near  him ! 
Igo,  dr  ago, 

As  for  the  deil,  he  daur  na  steer  him. 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

But  please  transmit  th’  enclosed  letter, 

Igo,  dr  ago. 

Which  will  oblige  your  humble  debtor. 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  hae  auld  stanes  in  store, 

Igo,  4*  ago, 

The  very  stanes  that  Adam  bore. 

Iram,  coram,  dago . 

So  may  ye  get  in  glad  possession, 

Igo,  dr  ago, 

The  coins  o’  Satan’s  coronation  ! 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM  Esq., 

OF  FINTRA, 

ON  RECEIVING  A FAVOR. 

I call  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 

A fabled  Muse  may  suit  a bard  that  feigns  ; 
Friend  of  my  life!  my  ardent  spirit  burns, 

And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns, 

For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new, 

The  gift  still  dearer,  as  the  giver  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day ! thou  other  paler  light ! 

And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night ; 

If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind  efface  ; 

If  I that  giver’s  bounty  e’er  disgrace  ; 

Then  roll  to  me,  along  your  wandering  spheres, 
Only  to  number  out  a villain’s  years  ! 


EPITAPH  ON  A FRIEND. 

An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest, 

As  e’er  God  with  his  image  blest ; 

The  friend  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth  : 
The  friend  of  age,  and  guide  of  youth  : 
Few  hearts  like  his,  with  virtue  warm’d, 
Few  heads  with  knowledge  so  inform’d: 
If  there’s  another  world,  ne  lives  in  bliss  ; 
If  there  is  none,  he  made  the  best  of  this,  j 


96 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


A GRACE  BEFORE  DINNER. 

O thou,  who  kindly  dost  provide 
For  every  creature’s  want  ! 

We  bless  thee,  God  of  Nature  wide, 

For  all  thy  goodness  lent : 

And,  if  it  please  thee,  Heavenly  Guide, 
May  never  worse  be  sent ; 

But  whether  granted  or  denied 
Lord,  bless  us  with  content ! 

Amen  ! 


To  my  dear  and  much  honored  Friend , Mrs. 

Dunlop,  of  Dunlop. 

ON  SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility,  how  charming, 

Thou , my  friend,  canst  truly  tell ; 

But  distress  with  horrors  arming, 

Thou  hast  also  known  too  well  ! 

Fairest  flower,  behold  the  lily, 

Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray  : 

Let  the  blast  sweep  o’er  the  valley, 

See  it  prostrate  on  the  clay. 

Hear  the  woodlark  charms  the  forest, 
Telling  o’er  his  little  joys  ; 

Hapless  bird  ! a prey  the  surest, 

To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure, 

Finer  feelings  can  bestow ; 

Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure, 
Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  wo. 


A VERSE  composed  and  repeated  by  Burns  to 
the  Master  of  the  House,  on  taking  leave  at  a 
Place  in  the  Highlands , where  he  hadbeen  hos- 
pitably entertained. 

When  death’s  dark  stream  I ferry  o’er, 

A time  that  surely  shall  came  ; 

In  Heaven  itself,  I’ll  ask  no  more. 

Than  just  a Highland  welcome. 


FAREWELL  TO  AYRSHIRE. 

Scenes  of  wo,  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 
Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew \ 

Scenes  of  wo,  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 
Now  a sad  and  last  adieu  ! 

Bonny  Doon,  sae  sweet  at  gloaming, 
Fare-thee-weel  before  I gang  ! 

Bonny  Doon,  whare  early  roaming, 

First  I weav’d  the  rustic  sang  ! 

Bowers,  adieu,  whare  Love,  decoying, 
First  inthrall’d  this  heart  o’  mine, 

There  the  safest  sweets  enjoying, — 
Sweets  that  Mem’ry  ne’er  shall  tyne  ’ 

Friends,  so  near  my  bosom  ever, 

Ye  hae  render’d  moments  dear; 

But,  alas  ! when  forc’d  to  sever, 

Then  the  stroke,  O,  how  severe  ! 

Friends  ! that  parting  tear  reserve  it, 

Tho’  ’tis  doubly  dear  to  me  ! 

Could  I think  I did  deserve  it, 

How  much  happier  would  I be  ! 

Scenes  of  wo,  and  scenes  of  pleasure. 
Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew, 

Scenes  of  wo,  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 
Now  a sad  and  last  adieu  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POETRY, 


SELECTED  FROM  y 

I 

THE  RELIQUES  OF  ROBERT  BURNS, 

✓ 

FIRST  PUBLISHED  BY  R.  H.  CROMEK. 


▼ ERSES  WRITTEN  AT  SELKIRK. 

I. 

Auld  chuckie  Reekie's*  sair  distrest, 

Down  droops  her  ance  weel  burnisht  crest, 
Nae  joy  her-bonnie  busket  nest 
Can  yield  ava, 

Her  darling  bird  that  she  lo’es  best, 

Willie’s  awa ! 

II. 

O Willie  was  a witty  wight, 

And  had  o’  things  arfr.u«co  slight ! 

Auld  Reekie  ay  he  Keepit  tight, 

And  trig  and  braw  : 

But  now  they’ll  busk  her  like  a fright, 
Willie’s  awa !. 

III. 

The  stiffest  e’  them  a’  he  bow’d, 

The  bauldest  o’  them  a’  he  cow’d  ; 

They  durst  nae  mair  than  he  allow’d, 

That  was  a law  : 

We’ve  lost  a birkie  weel  worth  gowd, 
Willie’s  awa ! 

IV. 

Now  gawkies,  tawpies,  gowks  and  fools, 
Frae  colleges  and  boarding  schools, 

May  sprout  like  simmer  pudduck-stools, 

In  glen  or  shaw  ; 

He  wha  could  brush  them  down  to  mools, 
Willie's  awa ! 

V. 


And  toothy  critics  by  the  score, 

In  bloody  raw ! 

The  adjutant  o’  a’  the  core, 

Willie’s  awa! 

VII 

Now  worthy  G*****y’s  latin  face, 

T****r’s  and  g*********’s  modest  grace  ; 

M’K****e,  S****t,  such  a brace 

As  Rome  ne’er  saw  ; 

They  a’  maun  meet  some  ither  place, 

Willie’s  awra  ! 

VIII. 

Poor  Burns — e’en  Scotch  drink  canna  quicken, 

He  cheeps  like  some  bewilder’d  chicken, 

Scar’d  frae  its  minnie  and  the  cleckin 
By  hoodie-craw ; 

Griefs  gien  his  heart  an  unco  kickin, 

Willie’s  awa  ! 

IX. 

Now  ev’ry  sour-mou’d  girnin’  blellum, 

And  Calvin’s  fock  are  fit  to  fell  him ; 

And  self-conceited  critic  skellum 

His  quill  may  draw  ; 

He  wha  could  brawl ie  ward  their  helium, 
Willie’s  awa ! 

X. 

Up  wimpling  stately  Tweed  I’ve  sped, 

And  Eden  scenes  on  crystal  Jed, 

And  Ettrick  banks  now  roaring  red, 

While  tempests  blaw ; 

But  every  joy  and  pleasure’s  fled, 

Willie’s  awa ! 


The  brethren  o’  the  Commerce-Chaumert 
May  mourn  their  loss  wi’  doolfu’  clamor  ; 

He  was  a dictionar  and  grammar 
Amang  them  a’ ; 

I fear  they’ll  now  mak  mony  a stammer, 
Willie’s  awa! 

VI. 

Nae  mair  we  see  his  levee  door 
Philosophers  and  Poets,  pour,t 

* Edinburgh. 

t The  Chamber  of  Commerce  of  Edinburgh,  of  which 
Mr.  C.  was  Secretary. 

$ Many  literary  gentlemen  were  accustom’d  to  meet 
1 Mr.  C— ’s  house  at  breakfast. 

7 


XI. 

May  I be  slander’s  common  speech ; 

A text  for  infamy  to  preach  ; 

And  lastly,  streekit  out  to  bleach 

In  winter  snaw  ; 
When  I forget  thee  ! Willie  Creech, 
Tho’  far  awa ! 

XII. 

May  never  wicked  fortune  touzle  him  ! 
May  never  wicked  men  bamboozle  him  . 
Until  a pow  as  auld’s  Methusalem  ! 

He  canty  claw  ! 

Then  to  the  blessed,  New  Jerusalem, 
Fleet  wing  awa ! 


97 


98  BURNS’ 

LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among, 

Thee,  famed  for  martial  deed  and  sacred  song, 
To  thee  I turn  with  swimming  eyes; 

Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  fled  ? 

Immingled  with  the  mighty  dead  ! 

Beneath  that  hallowed  turf  where  Wallace  lies! 
Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  bed  of  death  ! 

Ye  babbling  winds,  in  silence  sweep; 

Disturb  not  ye  the  hero’s  sleep, 

Nor  give  the  coward  secret  breath — 

Is  this  the  power  in  freedom’s  war 
That  wont  to  bid  the  battle  rage  ? 

Behold  that  eye,  which  shot  immortal  hate, 
Crushing  the  despot’s  proudest  bearing, 

That  arm  which,  nerved  with  thundering  fate, 
Braved  usurpation’s  boldest  daring  ! 

One  quench’d  in  darkness  like  the  sinking  star, 
And  one  the  palsied  arm  of  tottering,  powerless 
age. 


ELEGY 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT  RUISSEAUX.* 

Now  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair, 

He’ll  gabble  rhyme,  nor  sing  nae  mair, 

Cauld  poverty,  wi’  hungery  stare, 

Nae  mair  shall  fear  him  ; 
Nor  anxious  fear,  nor  cankert  care 

E’er  mair  come  near  him. 

To  tell  the  truth,  they  seldom  fasht  him  ; 
Except  the  moment  that  they  crusht  him  ; 

For  sune  as  chance  or  fate  had  husht  ’em, 
Tho’  e’er  sae  short, 

Then  wi’  a rhyme  or  song  he  lasht  ’em, 

And  thought  it  sport. — 

Tho’  he  was  bred  to  kintra  wark, 

And  counted  was  baith  wight  and  stark, 

Yet  that  was  never  Robin’s  mark 
To  mak  a man  ; 

But  tell  him,  he  was  learn’d  and  dark, 

Y e roos’d  him  then  ! 


COMIN  THRO’  THE  RYE. 

Comin  thro’  the  rye,  poor  body, 
Comin  thro’  the  rye, 

She  draigl’t  a’  her  petticoatie 
Comin  thro’  the  rye. 

Oh  Jenny’s  a’  weet,  poor  body, 
Jenny’s  seldom  dry  : 

She  draigl’t  a’  her  petticoatie 
Comin  thro’  the  rye. 

Gin  a body  meet  a body 
Comin  thro’  the  rye, 

Gin  a body  kiss  a body, 

Need  a body  cry. 

Oh  Jenny’s  a’  weet,  &c. 

Gin  a body  meet  a body 
Comin  thro’  the  glen, 

Gin  a body  kiss  a body, 

Need  the  warld  ken, 

Oh  Jenny’s  a’  weet,  &c. 

• Ruisseaux— a play  ou  his  own  name. 


POEMS. 

THE  LOYAL  NATIVES’  VERSES.* 

Ye  sons  of  sedition,  give  ear  to  my  song, 

Let  Syme,  Burns,  and  Maxwell,  pervade  every 
throng,  [quack, 

With  Craken,  the  attorney,  and  Mundell  the 
Send  Willie  the  monger  to  hell  with  a smack. 


BURNS  — Extempore. 

Ye  true  “ Loyal  Natives,”  attend  to  my  song, 
In  uproar  and  riot  rejoice  the  night  long  ; 

From  envy  and  hatred  your  corps  is  exempt ; 
But  where  is  your  shield  from  the  dart  of  con- 
tempt ? 


TO  J.  LAPRAIK. 

Sept.  13  tht  1785. 

Guid  speed  an’  furder  to  you,  Johnie, 

Guid  health,  hale  han’s,  and  weather  bonnie  ; 
Now  when  ye’re  nickan  down  fu’  cannie 
The  staff  o’  bread, 

May  ye  ne’er  want  a stoup  o’  brandy 
To  clear  your  head. 

May  Boreas  never  thresh  your  rigs, 

Nor  kick  your  rickles  aff  their  legs, 

Sendin  the  stuff  o’er  muirs  an’  haggs 

Like  drivin  wrack ; 

But  may  the  tapmast  grain  that  wags 
Come  to  the  sack. 

I’m  bizzie  too,  an’  skelpin  at  it, 

But  bitter,  daudin  showers  hae  wat  it, 

Sae  my  old  stumpie  pen  I gat  it 

Wi’  muckle  wark, 

An’  took  my  jocteleg  an’  whatt  it, 

Like  ony  dark. 

It’s  now  twa  month  that  I’m  your  debtor, 

For  your  braw,  nameless,  dateless  letter, 
Abusin  me  for  harsh  ill  nature 

On  holy  men, 

While  deil  a hair  yoursel  ye’re  better, 

But  mair  profane. 

But  let  the  kirk-folk  ring  their  bells, 

Let’s  sing  about  our  noble  sels  ; 

We’ll  cry  nae  jads  frae  heathen  hills, 

To  help,  or  roose  us, 

But  browster  wives  and  whiskie  stills, 

They  are  the  muses. 

Your  friendship,  Sir,  I winna  quat  it, 

An’  if  ye  mak  objections  at  it, 

Then  han’  in  nieve  some  day  wre’ll  knot  it, 

An’  witness  take, 

An’  when  wi’  usquebae  we’ve  wat  it, 

It  winna  break. 

* At  this  period  of  our  Poet’s  life,  when  political  ani- 
mosity was  made  the  ground  of  private  quarrel,  the 
above  foolish  verses  were  sent  as  an  attack  on  Burn! 
and  his  friends  for  their  political  opinions.  They  were 
written  by  some  member  of  a club  styling  themselves 
the  Loyal  Natives  of  Dumfries,  or  rather  by  the  united 
enius  of  that  club,  which  was  more  distinguished  for 
runken  loyalty,  than  either  for  respectability  or  poeti- 
cal talent.  The  verses  were  handed  over  the  table  to 
Burns  at  a convivial  meeting,  and  he  instantly  endors- 
ed the  subjoined  reply.— Relique$,p.  168. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


99 


But  if  the  beast  and  branks  be  spar’d, 

Till  kye  be  gaun  without  the  herd, 

An’  a’  the  vittel  in  the  yard, 

An’  theckit  right, 

I mean  your  ingle-side  to  guard 

Ae  winter  night. 

Then  muse-inspiring  aqua-vitte 
Shall  make  us  baith  sae  blithe  an’  witty, 
Till  ye  forget  ye’re  auld  an’  gatty, 

An’  be  as  canty 

As  ye  were  nine  years  less  than  thretty, 
Sweet  ane  an’  twenty. 

But  stooks  are  cowpet  wi’  the  blast, 

An’  now  the  sun  keeks  in  the  west, 

Then  I maun  rin  amang  the  rest 

An’  quat  my  chanter, 
Sae  I subscribe  mysel  in  haste. 

Yours,  Rab  the  Ranter. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  M’MATH, 

ENCLOSING  A COPY  OF  HOLY  WILLIE’S  PRAYER, 
WHICH  HE  HAD  REQUESTED.- 

Sept.  17  th,  1785. 

While  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cow’r, 

To  shun  the  bitter  blaudin  show’r, 

Or  in  gulravage  rinnin  scow’r 

To  pass  the  time, 

To  you  I dedicate  the  hour 

In  idle  rhyme. 

My  musie,  tir’d  wi  mony  a sonnet 
On  gown,  an’  ban’,  an’  douse  black  bonnet, 

Is  grown  right  eerie  now  she’s  done  it, 

Lest  they  should  blame  her, 
An’  rouse  their  holy  thunder  on  it, 

And  anathem  her. 

I own  ’twas  rash,  an’  rather  hardy, 

That  I,  a simple,  kintra  bardie, 

Should  meddle  wi’  a pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  they  ken  me, 

Can  easy,  wi’  a single  wordie, 

Lowse  h-U  upon  me. 

But  I gae  mad  at  their  grimaces, 

Their  sighan,  cantan,  grace-prood  faces, 

Their  three  mile  prayers,  an’  hauf-mile  graces, 
Their  raxan  conscience, 
Whase  greed,  revenge,  an’  pride  disgraces 

Waur  nor  their  nonsense. 

There’s  Gaun,*  miska’t  waur  than  a beast, 
Wha  has  mair  honor  in  his  breast, 

Than  mony  scores  as  guid’s  the  priest 

Wna  sae  abus’t  him ; 

An’  may  a bard  no  crack  his  jest  [him  t 

What  way  they ’ve  use’t 

See  him.t  the  poor  man’s  friend  in  need, 

The  gentleman  in  w’ord  an’  deed, 

An’  shall  his  fame  an’  honor  bleed 

By  worthless  skellums, 

An’  not  a muse  erect  her  head 

To  cowe  the  blellums? 

* Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq. 

t The  poet  has  introduced  the  two  first  lines  of  the 
stanza  into  the  dedication  of  his  works  to  Mr.  Hamilton. 


O Pope,  had  I thy  satire’s  darts, 

To  give  the  rascals  their  deserts, 

I'd  rip  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts, 

An’  tell  aloud 

Their  jugglin  hocus-pocus  arts 

To  cheat  the  crowd. 

God  knows.  I’m  no  the  thing  I should  be, 

Nor  am  I even  the  thing  I could  be, 

But  twenty  times,  I rather  would  be 
An’  Atheist  clean, 

Than  under  gospel  colors  hid  be, 

Just  for  a screen. 

An  honest  man  may  like  a glass, 

An  honest  man  may  like  a lass, 

But  mean  revenge,  an’  malice  fause, 

He’ll  still  disdain, 

An’  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws. 

Like  some  we  ken. 

They  take  religion  in  their  mouth  ; 

They  talk  o’  mercy,  grace  an’  truth, 

For  what  ? to  gie  their  malice  skouth 

On  some  puir  wight, 

An’  hunt  him  down,  o’er  right  an’  ruth, 

To  ruin  streight. 

All  hail,  Religion ! maid  divine  ! 

Pardon  a muse  sae  mean  as  mine, 

Who  in  her  rough  imperfect  line 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee  ; 
To  stigmatize  false  friends  of  thine 

Can  ne’er  defame  thee. 

Tho’  blotcht  an’  foul  wi’  mony  a stain, 

An’  far  unworthy  of  thy  train, 

With  trembling  voice  I tune  my  strain 
To  join  with  those, 

Who  boldly  dare  thy  cause  maintain 
In  spite  of  foes  : 

In  spite  o’  crowds,  in  spite  o’  mobs, 

In  spite  of  underminingjobs, 

In  spite  o’  dark  banditti  stabs 

At  worth  an’  merit, 

By  scoundrels,  even  wi’  holy  robes. 

But  hellish  spirit. 

O Ayr,  my  dear,  my  native  ground, 

Within  thy  presbytereal  bound 
A candid,  lib’ral  band  is  found 

Of  public  teachers, 

As  men,  as  Christians  too  renown’d, 

An’  manly  preachers. 


Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  nam’d ; 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  fam’d ; 

An’  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine’s  blam’d, 
(Which  gies  you  honor) 
Even,  Sir,  by  them  your  heart’s  esteem’d, 

An’  winning  manner. 

Pardon  this  freedom  I have  ta’en, 

An’  if  impertinent  I’ve  been, 

Impute  it  not,  good  Sir,  in  ane  [ye, 

Whase  heart  ne’er  wrang’d 
But  to  hie  utmost  would  befriend 

Ought  that  belang’d  ye. 


100 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  Esq. 
MAUCHLINE. 

(recommending  a boy.) 

Mosgaville,  May  3,  1786. 

I hold  it,  Sir,  my  bounden  duty. 

To  warn  you  how  that  Master  Tootie, 
Alias,  Laird  M’Gaun,* 

Was  here  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
’Bout  whom  ye  spak  the  tither  day, 

An’  wad  hae  don’t  aff  hair  : 

But  lest  he  learn  the  callan  tricks, 

As  faith  I muckle  doubt  him, 

Like  scrapin  out  auld  crummie’s  nicks, 

An’  tellin  lies  about  them  ; 

As  lieve  then,  I’d  have  then, 

Your  clerkship  he  should  sair, 

If  sae  be,  ye  may  be 
Not  fitted  otherwhere. 

Altho’  I say’t,  he’s  gleg  enough, 

An’  bout  a house  that’s  rude  an’  rough, 
The  boy  might  learn  to  swear; 
But  then  w'i’  you,  he’ll  sae  be  taught, 

An’  get  sic  fair  example  straught, 

I hae  na  ony  fear. 

Ye’ll  catechize  him  every  quirk, 

An’  shore  him  well  wi’  hell; 

An’  gar  him  follow  to  the  kirk 

— Ay  when  ye  gang  yoursel , 

If  ye  then,  maun  be  then 
Frae  hame  this  comin  Friday, 
Then  please,  Sir,  to  lea’e,  Sir. 

The  orders  wi’  your  lady. 

My  word  of  honor  I hae  gien, 

In  Paisley  John’s,  that  night  at  e’en, 

To  meet  the  Warld's  worm , 

To  try  to  get  the  twa  to  gree, 

An’  nartfe  the  airles  an’  the  fee, 

In  legal  mode  an’  form ; 

I ken  he  weel  a Snick  can  draw, 

When  simple  bodies  let  him  ; 

An’  if  a Devil  be  at  a’, 

In  faith  he’s  sure  to  get  him. 

To  phrase  you,  an’  praise  you, 

Ye  ken  your  Laureat  scorns ; 

The  prayer  still,  you  share  still, 

Of  grateful  Minstrel  Burns. 


TO  MR.  M’AD  A M, 

OF  CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

In  answer  to  an  obliging  Letter  he  sent  in  the 
commencement  of  my  Poetic  Career. 

Sir,  o’er  a gill  I gat  your  card, 

I trow  it  made  me  proud  ; 

See  wha  taks  notice  o’  the  bard  ! 

I lap  and  cry’d  fu’  loud. 

Now  deil-ma-care  about  their  jaw, 

The  senseless,  gawky  million  ; 

* Master  Tootie  then  lived  in  Mauchline  ; a dealer  in 
cows.  It  was  his  common  practice  lo  cut  the  n;cks 
or  markings  from  the  horns  of  cattle,  to  disguise  their 
age. — He  was  an  artful,  trick-contriving  character; 
hence  he  is  called  a Snick-drawer.  In  the  Poet’s  “Ad- 
dress to  the  Deil he  styles  that  august  personage  an 
auld,  snick-drawing  dog  1 — Reliques,  p.  397. 


I’ll  cock  my  nose  aboon  them  a’, 

I’m  roos’d  by  Craigen-Gillan  ! 

’Twas  noble,  Sir  ; ’twas  like  yoursel, 

To  grant  your  high  protection : 

A great  man’s  smile  ye  ken  fu’  well, 

Is  ay  a blest  infection. 

Tho’,  by  his  banes,  wha  in  a tub 
Match’d  Macedonian  Sandy ! 

On  my  ain  legs,  thro’  dirt  an’  dub, 

I independent  stand  ay. — 

And  when  those  legs  to  guid,  warm  kail, 
Wi’  welcome  canna  bear  me  ; 

A lee  dyke-side,  a sybow-tail, 

And  barley-scone  shall  cheer  me. 

Heaven  spare  you  lang  to  kiss  the  breath 
O’  mony  flow’ry  simmers! 

And  bless  your  bonnie  lasses  baith, — 
I’m  tald  the’re  loosome  kimmers ! 

And  God  bless  young  Dunaskin’s  laird, 
The  blossom  of  our  gentry  ! 

And  may  he  wear  an  auld  man’s  beard 
A credit  to  his  country. 


TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL, 
GLENRIDDEL. 

( Extempore  Lines  on  returning  a Newspaper.) 

Ellisland,  Monday  Evening. 

Your  news  and  review,  Sir,  I’ve  read  through 
and  through,  Sir, 

With  little  admiring  or  blaming; 

The  papers  are  barren  of  home  news  or  foreign, 
No  murder  or  rapes  worth  the  naming. 

Our  friends  the  reviewers,  those  chippers  and 
hewers, 

Are  judges  of  mortar  and  stone,  Sir  ; 

But  of  meet,  or  unmeet,  in  a fabric  complete, 

I’ll  boldly  pronounce  they  are  none,  Sir. 

My  goose-quill  too  rude  is,  to  tell  all  your  good- 
ness, 

Bestow’d  on  your  servant,  the  Poet ; 

Would  to  God  I had  one  like  a beam  of  the  sun, 
And  then  all  the  world,  Sir,  should  know  it! 


TO 

TERR  AUGHTY* 

ON  HIS  BIRTH-DAY. 

Health  to  the  Maxwells’  vet’ran  chief! 
Health,  ay  unsour’d  by  care  or  grief: 

Inspir'd,  I turn’d  Fate’s  sibyl  leaf. 

This  natal  morn, 

I see  thy  life  is  stuff  o’  prief, 

Scarce  quite  half  worn. — 

This  day  thou  metes  threescore  eleven, 

And  I can  tell  that  bounteous  Heaven, 

(The  second  sight,  ye  ken  is  given 
To  ilka  Poet) 

On  thee  a tack  o’  seven  times  seven 

Will  yet  bestow  it. 

* Mr.  Maxwell,  of  Terraughty,  near  Dumfric*. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


101 


t 


If  envious  buckies  view  wi’  sorrow, 

Thy  lengthen'd  days  on  this  blest  morrow, 
May  desolation's  lang-teeth'd  harrow, 

N ine  miles  an  hour, 

Rake  them,  like  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 

In  brunstane  stoure. — 

But  for  thy  friends,  and  they  are  mony, 

Baith  honest  men  and  lasses  bonnie. 

May  couthie  fortune,  kind  and  cannie, 

In  social  glee, 

Wi1  morning  blithe  and  e’enings  funny, 

Bless  them  and  thee  ! 

Fareweel,  auld  birkie ! Lord  be  near  ye, 

And  then  the  Deil  he  daur  na  steer  ye  : 

Your  friends  ay  love,  your  faes  ay  fear  ye ; 

For  me,  shame  fa’  me, 

If  neist  my  heart  I dinna  wear  ye, 

While  Burns  they  ca’  me. 


TO  A LADY, 

With  a Present  of  a Pair  of  Drinking -Glasses. 

Fair  Empress  of  the  Poet’s  soul, 

And  Queen  of  Poetesses ; 

Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon, 

This  humble  pair  of  glasses, — 

And  fill  them  high  with  generous  juice, 

As  generous  as  your  mind  ; 

And  pledge  me  in  the  generous  toast — 

* ‘ The  whole  of  human  kind  /” 

“ To  those  who  love  us  /” — second  fill; 

But  not  to  those  whom  we  love ; 

Lest  we  love  those  who  love  not  us ! 

A third — “ to  thee  and  me,  love  /” 


THE  VOWELS. 

A TALE. 

’Twas  where  the  birch  and  sounding  thong  are 
plied, 

The  noisy  domicile  of  pedant  pride  ; 

Where  ignorance  her  darkening  vapor  throws, 
And  cruelty  directs  the  thickening  blows  ; 

Upon  a time.  Sir  Abece  the  great, 

In  all  his  pedagogic  powers  elate, 

His  awful  chair  of  state  resolves  to  mount, 

And  call  the  trembling  vowels  to  account. 

First  enter’d  A,  a grave,  broad,  solemn  wight, 
But,  ah!  deform’d,  dishonest  to  the  sight ! 

His  twisted  head  look’d  backward  on  his  way, 
And  flagrant  from  the  scourge,  he  grunted,  ai! 

Reluctant,  E stalk’d  in  ; with  piteous  grace 
The  justling  tears  ran  down  his  honest  face  : 
That  name,  that  well-worn  name,  and  all  his 
own, 

Pale  he  surrenders  at  the  tyrant’s  throne  ! 

The  pedant  stifles  keen  the  Roman  sound, 

Not  all  his  mongrel  diphthongs  can  compound: 
And  next,  the  title  following  close  behind, 

He  to  the  nameless,  ghastly  wretch  assing’d. 

The  cobweb’d  gothic  dome  resounded,  Y ! 

In  sullen  vengeance,  I,  disdain’d  reply  : 

The  pedant  swung  his  felon  cudgel  round, 

And  knock’d  the  groaning  vowel  to  the  ground ! 


In  rueful  apprehension  enter’d  0, 

The  wailing  minstrel  of  despairing  wo  ; 

Th’  Inquisitor  of  Spain  the  most  expert, 

Might  there  have  learnt  new  mysteries  of  his  art : 
So  grim,  deform'd,  with  horrorsentering  U, 
His  dearest  friend  and  brother  scarcely  knew  ! 

As  trembling  U stood  staring  all  aghast, 

The  pedant  in  his  left  hand  clutch’d  him  fast, 
In  helpless  infant’s  tears  he  dipp’d  his  right, 
Baptiz’d  him  eu,  and  kick’d  him  from  his  sight. 


SKETCH  * 

A little,  upright,  pert,  tart,  tripping  wight, 
And  still  his  precious  self  his  dear  delight ; 
Who  loves  his  own  smart  shadow  in  the  streets. 
Better  than  e’er  the  fairest  she  he  meets, — 

A man  of  fashion  too.,  he  made  his  tour, 
Learn’d  vive  la  bagatelle,  et  vive  V amour  ; 

So  travel’d  monkeys  their  grimace  improve, 
Polish  their  grin,  nay,  sigh  for  ladies’  love. 
Much  specious  lore,  but  little  understood  ; 
Veneering  oft  outshines  the  solid  wood  : 

His  solid  sense — by  inches  you  must  tell, 

But  mete  his  cunning  by  the  old  Scots  ell ; 

His  meddling  vanity,  a busy  fiend, 

Still  making  work  his  selfish  craft  must  mend. 


SCOTS  PROLOGUE, 

For  Mr.  Sutherland' s Benefit  Night,  Dumfries. 

What  needs  this  din  about  the  town  o’  Lon’on, 
How  this  new  play  an’  that  new  sang  is  comin  ? 
Why  is  outlandish  stuff  sae  meikle  courted  ? 
Does  nonsense  mend  like  whisky,  when  im- 
ported ? 

Is  there  nae  poet,  burning  keen  for  fame, 

Will  try  to  gie  us  sangs  and  plays  at  hame? 

For  comedy  abroad  he  need  na  toil, 

A fool  and  knave  are  plants  of  every  soil ; 

Nor  need  he  hunt  as  far  as  Room  and  Greece 
To  gather  matter  for  a serious  piece  ; 

There’s  themes  enough  in  Caledonian  story, 
Would  show  the  tragic  muse  in  a’  her  glory. — 

Is  there  no  daring  bard  will  rise,  and  tell 
How  glorious  Wallace  stood,  how,  hapless,  fell? 
Where  are  the  muses  fled  that  could  produce 
A drama  worthy  o’  the  name  o’  Bruce  ? 

How  here,  even  here,  he  first  unsheath’d  the 
sword, 

’Gainst  mighty  England  and  her  guilty  lord ; 

And  after  mony  a bloody,  deathless  doing, 
Wrench’d  his  dear  country  from  the  jaws  of 
ruin  ? 

O for  a Shakspeare  or  an  Otway  scene, 

To  draw  the  lovely,  hapless  Scottish  Queen ! 

♦This  sketch  seems  to  be  one  of  a series,  intended 
for  a projected  work,  under  the  tittle  of  “The  Poet's 
Progress .”  This  character  was  sent  as  a specimen, 
accompanied  by  a letter,  to  Professor  Dugald  Stewart , 
in  which  it  is  thus  noticed  : “The  fragment  beginning 
A little,  upright,  pert,  tart.  8fC„  I have  not  shown  to  any 
man  living,  till  I now  send  it  to  you.  It  forms  the 
postulata,  the  axioms,  the  definition  of  a character, 
which,  if  it  appear  at  all,  shall  be  placed  in  a variety 
of  lights.  This  particular  part  I send  you  merely  as  a 
sample  of  my  hand  at  portrait  sketching,” 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


102 

Vain  all  th1  omnipotence  of  female  charms 
’Gainst  headlong,  ruthless,  mad  Rebellion’3 
arms. 

She  fell,  but  fell  with  spirit  truly  Roman, 

To  glut  the  vengeance  of  a rival  woman : 

A woman,  tho’  the  phrase  may  seem  uncivil, 
As  able  and  as  cruel  as  the  devil ! 

One  Douglas  lives  in  Home’s  immortal  page, 
But  Douglases  were  heroes  every  age: 

And  tho1  your  fathers,  prodigal  of  life, 

A Douglas  followed  to  the  martial  strife, 
Perhaps  if  bowls  row  right,  and  Right  succeeds, 
Ye  yet  may  follow  where  a Douglas  leads  ! 

As  ye  hae  generous  done,  if  a’  the  land 
Would  take  the  muses1  servants  by  the  hand; 
Not  only  here,  but  patronise,  befriend  them, 
And  where  ye  justly  can  commend,  commend 
them, 

And  aiblins  when  they  winna  stand  the  test, 
Wink  hard  and  say,  the  folks  hae  done  their 
best ! 

Would  a1  the  land  do  this,  then  I’ll  be  caution 
Ye’ll  soon  hae  poets  o1  the  Scottish  nation, 

Vv  ill  gar  fame  blaw  until  her  trumpet  crack, 
And  warsle  time  an1  lay  him  on  his  back ! 

For  us  and  for  our  stage  should  ony  spier, 
“Whose  aught  thae  chiels  maks  a1  this  bustle 
here  ?” 

My  best  leg  foremost,  I’ll  set  up  my  brow, 

We  have  the  honor  to  belong  to  you ! 

We’re  your  own  bairns,  e’en  guide  us  as  ye  like, 
But  like  good  mithers,  shore  before  ye  strike, — 
And  gratefu1  still  I hope  ye’ll  ever  find  us, 

For  a’  the  patronage  and  meikle  kindness 
We’ve  got  frae  a1  professions,  sets  and  ranks: 
God  help  us ! we’re  but  poor — ye’se  get  but 
thanks. 


EXTEMPORANEOUS  EFFUSION 

ON  BEING 

APPOINTED  TO  THE  EXCISE. 

Searching  auld  wives1  barrels 
Och,  ho  ! the  day  ! 

That  clarty  barm  should  stain  my  laurels 
But — what  ’ll  ye  say  ! 

These  muvin1  things  ca’d  wives  and  weans, 
Wad  muve  the  very  hearts  o’  stanes  ! 


On  seeing  the  beautiful  Seat  of  Lord  G. 

What  dost  thou  in  that  mansion  fair? 

Flit  G , and  find 

Some  narrow,  dirty,  dungeon  cave, 

The  picture  of  thy  mind  ! 


On  the  Same. 

No  Stewart  art  thou  G , 

The  Stewarts  all  were  brave  ; 
Besides,  the  Stewarts  were  but  fools, 
Not  one  of  them  a knave. 


On  the  Same. 

Bright  ran  thy  line,  O G , 

Thro1  many  a far  fam’d  sire  ! 

So  ran  the  far-fam’d  Roman  way, 
So  ended  in  a mire. 


To  the  Same,  on  the  Author  being  threatened 
with  his  Resentment. 

Spare  me  thy  vengeance,  G , 

In  quiet  let  me  live : 

I ask  no  kindness  at  thy  hand, 

For  thou  hast  none  to  give. 


THE  DEAN  OF  FACULTY. 

A NEW  BALLAD. 

Tune — “The  Dragon  of  Wantley.’* 

Dire  was  the  hate  at  old  Harlaw, 

That  Scot  to  Scot  did  carry  ; 

And  dire  the  discord  Langside  saw, 

For  beauteous,  hapless  Mary: 

But  Scot  with  Scot  ne’er  met  so  hot, 

Or  were  more  in  fury  seen,  Sir, 

Than  ’twixt  Hal  and  Bob  for  the  famous  job — 
Who  should  be  Faculty's  Dean , Sir. — 

This  Hal  for  genius,  wit,  and  lore, 

Among  the  first  was  number’d  ; 

But  pious  Bob,  ’mid  learning’s  store, 
Commandment  tenth  remember’d. — 

Yet  simple  Bob  the  victory  got, 

And  won  his  heart’s  desire  ; 

Which  shows  that  heaven  can  boil  the  pot, 
Though  the  devil  p — s in  the  fire. — 

Squire  Hal,  besides,  had  in  this  case, 
Pretensions  rather  brassy, 

For  talents  to  deserve  a place 
Are  qualifications  saucy  ; 

So  their  worships  of  the  Faculty, 

Quite  sick  of  Merit’s  rudeness, 

Chose  one  who  should  owe  it  all,  d’ye  see, 

To  their  gratis  grace  and  goodness. 

As  once  on  Pisgah  purg’d  was  the  sight 
Of  a son  of  Circumcision, 

So  may  be,  on  this  Pisgah  height, 

Rob's  purblind,  mental  vision: 

Nay,  Bobby's  mouth  may  be  open’d  yet, 

Till  for  eloquence  you  hail  him, 

And  swear  he  has  the  Angel  met 
That  met  the  Ass  of  Balaam. — 

* * * * * 


EXTEMPORE  IN  THE  COURT  OF 
SESSION. 

Tune-- “ Gillicrankie.” 

LORD  A TE. 

He  clench’d  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist, 

He  quoted  and  he  hinted, 

Till  in  a declamation-mist, 

His  argument  he  tint  it : 


BURNS 


POEMS. 


103 


He  gaped  for ’t,  he  graped  for  ’t, 

He  land  it  was  awa,  man  ; 

But  what  his  common  sense  came  short, 
He  eked  out  wi’  law,  man. 


MR.  er — NE. 

Collected  Harry  stood  awee, 

Then  open’d  out  his  arm,  man  ; 

His  lordship  sat  wi’  ruefu’  e’e, 

And  ey’d  the  gathering  storm,  man  ; 
Like  wind-driv’n  hail  it  aid  assail, 

Or  torrents  owre  a lin,  man  ; 

The  Bench  sae  wise,  lift  up  their  eyes 
Half-wauken'd  wi’  the  din,  man. 


VERSES  TO  J.  EANKEN. 

[ The  Person  to  whom  his  Poem  on  shooting  the 
Patridge  is  addressed,  while  Ranken  occupied 
the  Farm  of  Adamhill,  in  Ayrshire .] 

Ae  day,  as  Death,  that  gruesome  carl, 

Was  driving  to  the  tither  warl 
A mixtie-maxtie  motley  squad, 

And  mony.  a guilt-bespotted  lad  ; 

Black  gowns  of  each  denomination, 

And  thieves  of  every  rank  and  station, 

From  him  that  wears  the  star  and  garter, 

To  him  that  wintles*  in  a halter  : 

Asham’d  himself  to  see  the  wretches, 

He  mutters,  glow’rin  at  the  bitches, 

“ By  G-d,  I’ll  not  be  seen  behint  them, 

Nor  ’mang  the  sp’rtual  core  present  them, 
Without,  at  least  ae  honest  man, 

To  grace  this  d d infernal  clan.” 

By  Adamhill  a glance  he  threw, 

*'  L — d G-d  !”  quoth  he,  “ I have  it  now, 
There’s  just  the  man  I want,  in  faith,” 

And  quickly  stoppet  Ranken's  breath. 


On  hearing  that  there  was  Falsehood  in  the  Rev. 
Dr.  B 's  very  Looks. 

That  there  is  falsehood  in  his  looks, 

I must  and  will  deny  : 

They  say  their  master  is  a knave— 

And  sure  they  do  not  lie. 


Oil  a Schoolmaster  in  Cleish  Parish , Fifeshire. 

Here  lie  Willie  M — hie’s  banes, 

O Satan,  when  ye  tak  him, 

Gie  him  the  schulin  of  your  weans  ; 

For  clever  Deils  he’ll  mak  em  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  GENERAL  DUMOURIER. 

(A  PARODY  ON  ROBIN  ADAIR.) 

You’re  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier, 
You’re  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier  ; 

•The  word  winlle,  denotes  sudden  and  involuntary 
motion.  In  the  ludicrous  sense  in  which  it  is  here  ap- 
plied, it  may  he  admirably  translated  by  the  vulgar 
London  expression  of  Dancing  upon  nothing. 


How  does  Dampiere  do  ? 

Ay,  and  Bournonville  too  ? [ourier  ? 

Why  did  they  not  come  along  with  you,  Dum- 

I will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier,— 

I will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier;  — 

I will  fight  France  with  you, 

I will  tak  my  chance  with  you ; 

By  my  soul  I’ll  dance  a dance  with  you,  Dum- 
ourier. 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier, 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier  ; 

Then  let  us  fight  about, 

Till  freedom’s  spark  is  out. 

Then  we'll  be  d-mned  no  doubt — Dumourier. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  YEAR  1788. 

R A SKETCH. 

For  Lords  or  Kings  I dinna  mourn, 

E’en  let  them  die — for  that  they’re  born : 

But  oh  ! prodigious  to  reflect  ! 

A Towmont,  Sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck! 

O Eighty-eight,  in  thy  sma’  space, 

What  dire  events  hae  taken  place  ! 

Of  what  enjoyment  thou  hast  reft  us  ! 

In  what  a pickle  thou  hast  left  us  ! 

The  Spanish  empire ’s  tint  a head, 

An’  my  auld  teethless  Bawtie’s  dead  ; 

The  tulzie ’s  teugh  ’tween  Pitt  an’  Fox, 

And  ’tween  our  Maggie’s  twa  wee  cocks ; 

The  tane  is  game,  a bluidie  devil, 

But  to  the  hen-birds  unco  civil ; 

The  tither’s  something  dour  o’  treadin, 

But  better  stuff  ne’er  claw’d  a midden. — 

Ye  ministers,  come  mount  the  poupet, 

An’  cry  till  ye  be  haerse  an’  roupit, 

For  Eighty-eight , he  wish’d  you  weel, 

An’  gied  you  a’  baith  gear  and  meal ; 

E’en  mony  a plack,  and  mony  a peck, 

Y e ken  yoursels,  for  little  feck  ! 

Ye  bonnie  lasses,  dight  your  een, 

For  some  o’  you  hae  tin  a frien’  ; 

In  Eighty-eight,  ye  ken,  was  ta’en 
What  ye’ll  ne’er  hae  to  gie  again. 

Observe  the  very  nowt  an’  sheep. 

How  dowf  and  dowie  now  they  creep  ; 

Nay,  even  the  yirth  itself  does  cry. 

For  E’nbrugh  wells  are  grutten  dry. 

0 Eighty-nine,  thou’s  but  a bairn, 

An’  no  o’er  auld,  I hope,  to  learn  ! 

Thou  beardless  boy,  I pray  tak  care, 

Thou  now  hast  got  thy  daddy’s  chair. 

Nae  hand-cuff’d,  mizzl’d,  hap-shackl’d  Regent, 
But,  like  himsel,  a full,  free  agent, 

Be  sure  ye  follow  out  the  plan 
Nae  waur  than  he  did,  honest  man ; 

As  muckle  better  as  you  can. 

January  1,  1789. 


VERSES 

Written  under  the  Portrait  of  Fergusson,  the 
Poet , in  a copy  of  that  author's  works  present- 
ed to  a young  Lady  in  Edinburgh,  March  19, 
1787. 

Curse  on  ungrateful  man,  that  can  be  pleas’d, 
And  yet  can  starve  the  author  of  the  pleasure ! 


104 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


O thou,  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune, 
By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  muse's, 
With  tears  1 pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ! 

Why  is  the  bard  unpitied  by  the  world, 
Yet  has  so  keen  a relish  of  its  pleasures  ? 


—»>►*©  @ 0«<i— - 


SONGS. 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING-  EARLY* 

Up  in  the  morning's  no  for  me, 

Up  in  the  morning  early  ; 

When  a'  the  hills  are  covered  wV  snaw, 
I'm  s-ire  it's  winter  fairly. 

Cold  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west, 

The  drift  is  driving  sairly  ; 

Sae  loud  and  shrill  I hear  the  blast, — 

I’m  sure  it’s  winter  fairly. 

The  birds  sit  chittering  in  the  thorn, 

A’  day  they  fare  but  sparely  ; 

And  lang’s  the  night  frae  e’en  to  morn, 

I’m  sure  it’s  winter  fairly. 

Up  in  the  morning,  <§-c. 


SONG. 

I DREAM’D  I LAY  WHERE  FLOWERS  WERE 
SPRINGIN&.t 

I dream’d  I lay  where  flowers  were  springing, 
Gaily  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 

List’ning  to  the  wild  birds  singing, 

By  a falling,  crystal  stream  ; 

Straight  the  sky  grew  black  and  daring ; 

Thro’  the  woods  the  whirlwinds  rave  ; 

Trees  with  aged  arms  were  warring 
O’er  the  swelling,  drumlie  wave. 

Such  was  my  life’s  deceitful  morning, 

Such  the  pleasures  I enjoy’d  ; 

But  lang  e’er  noon,  loud  tempests  storming, 

A’  my  flow’ry  bliss  destroy’d. 

Tho’  fickle  fortune  has  deceived  me, 

She  promis’d  fair,  and  perform’d  but  ill ; 

Of  mony  a joy  and  hope  bereav’d  me, 

I bear  a heart  shall  support  me  still. 


SONG.t 

BEWARE  o’  BONNIE  ANN. 

Ye  gallants  bright,  I red  you  right, 
Beware  o’  bonnie  Ann  ; 

Her  comely  face,  sae  fu’  o’  grace, 

You  heart  she  will  trepan. 

* The  chorus  is  old. 

t These  two  stanzas  I composed  when  I was  seven- 
teen, and  are  among  the  oldest  of  my  printed  pieces. — 
Burns’1  Reliques , p.  24*2. 

t I composed  this  song  out  of  compliment  to  Miss 
Ann  Masterton,  the  daughter  of  my  friend  Allan  Mas- 
terton,  the  author  of  the  air  of  StrathaHan’s  Lament, 
and  two  or  three  others  in  this  work. — Burns'  Reliques , 

p.  206. 


Her  een  sae  bright,  like  stars  by  night. 
Her  skin  is  like  the  swan ; 

Sae  jimply  lac’d  her  genty  waist, 

That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 

Youth,  grace,  and  love,  attendant  move, 
And  pleasure  leads  the  van  : 

In  a’  their  charms,  and  conquering  arms, 
They  wait  on  bonnie  Ann. 

The  captive  bands  may  chain  the  hands, 
But  love  enslaves  the  man  ; 

Ye  gallants  braw,  I red  ye  a’, 

Beware  o’  bonnie  Ann. 


SONG. 

MY  BONNIE  MARY.* 

Go  fetch  to  me  a pint  o’  wine, 

An’  fill  it  in  a silver  tassie  ; 

That  I may  drink  before  I go, 

A service  to  my  bonnie  lassie  , 

The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o’  Leith ; 

Fu’  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  ferry ; 

The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I maun  lea’e  my  bonnie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready  ; 

The  shouts  o’  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody  ; 

But  it’s  not  the  roar  o’  sea  or  shore, 

Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 

Nor  shouts  o’  war  that’s  heard  afar, 

It’s  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 


SONG. 

there’s  A YOUTH  IN  THIS  CITY.t 

There’s  a youth  in  this  city,  it  were  a great 
pity. 

That  he  from  our  lasses  should  wander  awa’; 
For  he’s  bonnie  and  braw,  weel-favor’d  with  a1, 
And  his  hair  has  a natural  buckle  and  a’. 

His  coat  is  the  hue  of  his  bonnet  sae  blue ; 

His  fecket  is  white  as  the  new-driven  snaw  ; 
His  hose  they  are  blae,  and  his  shoon  like  the 
slae, 

And  his  clear  siller  buckles  they  dazzle  us  a’, 
His  coat  is  the  hue,  &c. 

For  beauty  and  fortune  the  laddie’s  been  courtin; 
Weel-featur’d,  weel-tocher’d,  weel-mounted 
and  braw ; 

But  chiefly  the  siller,  that  gars  him  gang  till  her, 
The  pennie’s  the  jewel  that  beautifies  a’. — 
There’s  Meg  wi’  the  mailen,  that  fain  wad  a 
haen  him, 

And  Susy  whase  daddy  was  Laird  o’  the  ha’ ; 
There’s  lang-tocher’d  Nancy  maist  fetters  hi* 
fancy, 

But  the  laddie’s  dear  sel  he  lo’es  dearest  of  a. 

*Tliis  air  is  Oswald’s;  the  first  half-stanza  of  the 
song  is  old 

t This  air  is  claimed  by  Niel  Gow,  who  calls  it  hi* 
lament  for  his  brother.  The  first  half-stanza  of  the 
song  is  old. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


105 


SONG. 

MY  HEART’S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.* 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 
here ; 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer  ; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands, farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birth-place  of  valor,  the  country  of  worth  ; 
Wherever  I wander,  wherever  I rove, 

The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I love. 

Fare'well  to  the  mountains  high  cover’d  with 
snow ; 

Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below ; 
F arewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods  ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud  pouring  floods. 
My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 
here, 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer ; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I go. 


SONG.f 

THE  RANTIN  DOG  THE  DADDIE  o’t. 

O wha  my  babie-clouts  will  buy  ? 
Wha  will  tent  me  when  I cry  ? 
Wha  will  kiss  me  whare  I lie  ? 

The  rantin  dog  the  daddie  o’t. — 

Wha  will  own  he  did  the  faut  ? 
Wha  will  buy  my  groanin-maut  ? 
Wha  will  tell  me  how  to  ca’t  ? 

The  rantin  dog  the  daddie  o’t. — 

When  I mount  the  creepie-chair, 
Wha  will  sit  beside  me  there  ? 

Gie  me  Rob,  I seek  nae  mair, 

The  rantin  dog  the  daddie  o’t. — 

Wha  will  crack  to  me  my  lane  ? 
Wha  will  mak  me  fidgin  fain? 

Wha  will  kiss  me  o’er  again  ? 

The  rantin  dog  the  daddie  o’t. 


SONG, 

I DO  CONFESS  THOU  ART  SAE  FAIR.t 

I DO  confess  thou  art  sae  fair, 

I wad  been  o’er  the  lugs  in  luve  ; 

Had  I na  found  the  slightest  prayer 

That  lips  could  speak,  thy  heart  could  muve. 

I do  confess  thee  sweet ; but  find 
Thou  art  sae  thriftless  o’  thy  sweets, 

Thy  favors  are  the  silly  wind 
That  kisses  ilka  thing  it  meets. 

* The  first  half-stanza  is  old. 

I I composed  this  song  pretty  early  in  life,  and  sent 
it  to  a young  girl,  a very  particular  acquaintance  of 
mine,  who  was  at  that  time  under  a cloud. — Burns' 
Re.liques,  p.  278. 

% This  song  is  altered  from  a poem  by  Sir  Rob.  Ayton, 
private  secretary  to  Mary  and  Anne,  queensofScotland. 
The  poem  is  to  be  found  in  James  Watson’s  Collec- 
tion of  Scots  Poems,  the  earliest  collection  printed  in 
Scotland.  I think  that  I have  improved  the  simplicity 
of  the  sentiments,  by  giving  them  a Scots  dress. — 
Burns'1  Reliques,  p.  292. 


See  yonder  rose-bud,  rich  in  dew, 
Amang  its  native  briers  sae  coy, 

How  sune  it  tines  its  scent  and  hue 
When  pu’d  and  worn  a common  toy  ! 

Sic  fate  e’er  lang  shall  thee  betide, 

Tho’  thou  may  gaily  bloom  awhile  ; 
Yet  sune  thou  shalt  be  thrown  aside, 
Like  ony  common  weed  and  vile. 


SONG* 

Tune — “ Craigie-burn  WoodJ’t 

Beyond  thee , dearie,  beyond  thee,  dearie, 

And  0 to  be  lying  beyond  thee, 

0 sweetly,  soundly,  weel  may  he  sleep, 

That's  laid  in  the  bed  beyond  thee. 

Sweet  closes  the  evening  on  Craigie-burn- 
wood, 

And  blithly  awakens  the  morrow  ; 

But  the  pride  of  the  spring  in  the  Craigie -burn- 
wood 

Can  yield  to  me  nothing  but  sorrow. 

Beyond  thee , Ac. 

I see  the  spreading  leaves  and  flowers, 

1 hear  the  wild  birds  singing  ; 

But  pleasure  they  hae  nane  for  me, 

While  care  my  heart  is  wringing. 

Beyond  thee,  Ac- 

I canna  tell,  I maunna  tell, 

I dare  na  for  your  anger ; 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 

If  I conceal  it  langer. 

Beyond  thee,  fyc. 

I see  thee  gracefu’  straight  and  tall, 

I see  thee  sweet  and  bonnie, 

But  oh,  what  will  my  torments  be, 

If  thou  refuse  thy  Johnie  ! 

Beyond  thee,  <£c. 

To  see  thee  in  anither’s  arms, 

In  love  to  lie  and  languish, 

’Twad  be  my  dead,  that  will  be  seen, 

My  heart  wad  burst  wi’  anguish. 

Beyond  thee,  fyc. 

But  Jeanie,  say  thou  wilt  be  mine, 

Say  thou  lo’es  nane  before  me  ; 

And  a’  my  days  o’  life  to  come 
I’ll  gratefully  adore  thee. 

Beyond  thee,  <J*c. 


SONG. 

YON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS. 

Yon  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide, 
Thatnursein  their  bosom  the  youth  o’  the  Clyde, 

*It  is  remarkable  of  this  place,  that  it  is  the  confine 
of  that  country  where  the  greatest  part  of  our  Lowland 
music  (so  far  as  from  the  title,  words,  &c.  we  can  lo- 
calize it)  has  been  composed.  From  Craigie-burn,  near 
Moffat,  until  one  reaches  the  West  Highlands,  we  have 
scarcely  one  slow  air  of  any  antiquity. 

The  song  was  composed  on  a passion  which  a Mr. 
Gillespie,  a particular  friend  of  mine,  had  for  a Miss 
Lorimer,  afterwards  a Mrs.  Whelpdale.  The  young 
lady  was  born  at  Craigie-burn-wood.  The  chorus  ia 
part  of  an  old  foolish  ballad. — Burns'  Reliques , p.  284. 

t The  chorus  is  old. — Another  copy  of  this  will  be 
found,  ante  p.  10L 


106  BURNS’ 

Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  thro’  the 
heather  to  feed,  [his  reed. 

And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he  pipes  on 
Where  the  grouse,  ($-c. 

Not  Gowrie’s  rich  valley,  nor  Forth’s  sunny 
shores,  [moors ; 

To  me  hae  the  charms  o’  yon  wild,  mossy 

For  there,  by  a lanely,  and  sequester’d  stream, 

Resides  a sweet  lassie,  my  thought  and  my 
dream. 

Amang  the  wild  mountains  shall  still  be  my 
path,  [strath ; 

Ilk  stream  foaming  down  its  ain  green,  narrow 

For  there,  wi’  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  1 rove, 

While  o’er  us  unheeded  fly  the  swift  hours  o’ 
love. 

She  is  not  the  fairest,  altho’  she  is  fair  ; 

O’  nice  education  but  sma’  is  her  share  : 

Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be  ; 

But  I lo’e  the  dear  lassie,  because  she  lo’es  me. 

To  beauty  what  man  but  maun  yield  him  a prize, 

In  her  amor  of  glances,  and  blushes,  and  sighs  ; 

And  when  wit  and  refinement  hae  polish’d  her 
darts, 

They  dazzle  our  een,  as  they  flie  to  our  hearts. 

But  kindness,  sweet  kindness,  in  the  fond  spark- 
ling e’e, 

Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to  me  ; 

And  the  heart-beating  love,  as  I’m  clasp’d  in 
her  arms, 

O,  these  are  my  lassie’s  all-conquering  charms  ! 


SONG. 

WHA  IS  THAT  AT  MY  BOWER  DOOR  ? 

Wha  is  that  at  my  bower  door  ? 

O wha  is  it  but  Findlay  ; 

Then  gae  your  gate,  ye’se  nae  be  here  ! 

Indeed  maun  1,  quo’  Findlay. 

What  mak  ye  sae  like  a thief  ? 

O come  and  see,  quo’  Findlay; 
Before  the  morn  ye’ll  work  mischief; 
Indeed  will  I,  quo’  Findlay. 

Gif  I rise  and  let  you  in  ? 

Let  me  in  quo’  Findlay  ; 

Ye’ll  keep  me  waukin  wi’  your  din; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo  Findlay. 

In  my  bower  if  ye  should  stay  ? 

Let  me  stay,  quo’  Findlay  ; 

I fear  ye’ll  bide  till  break  o’  day; 
Indeed  will  I;  quo’  Findlay. 

Here  this  night  if  ye  remain, 

I’ll  remain,  quo’  Findlay  ; 

I dread  ye’ll  learn  the  gate  again; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo’  Findlay  ; 

What  may  pass  within  this  bower, 

Let  it  pass,  quo’  Findlay  ; 

Ye  maun  conceal  to  your  last  hour ; 
Indeed  will  I,  quo’  Findlay  ! 


POEMS. 

SONG* 

Tune — “The  Weaver  and  his  Shuttle,  O.” 

My  Father  was  a Farmer  upon  the  Carrick  bor- 
der, O, 

And  carefully  he  bred  me  in  decency  and  or- 
der, O ; 

He  bade  me  act  a manly  part,  though  I had  ne’er 
a farthing,  O, 

For  without  an  honest  , manly  heart,  no  man  was 
worth  regarding,  O. 

Then  out  into  the  world  my  course  I did  deter- 
mine, O, 

Tho’  to  be  rich  was  not  my  wish,  yet  to  be 
great  was  charming,  O ; 

My  talents  they  were  not  the  worst ; nor  yet 
my  education,  O ; 

Resolv’d  was  I,  at  least  to  try,  to  mend  my  situ- 
ation, 0. 

In  many  a way,  and  vain  essay,  I courted  for- 
tune’s favor,  O ; 

Some  cause  unseen,  still  stept  between,  to  frus- 
trate each  endeavor,  O ; 

Sometimes  by  foes  I was  o’erpower’d ; some- 
times by  friends  forsaken,  O, 

And  when  my  hope  was  at  the  top,  I still  was 
worst  mistaken,  O. 

Then  sore  harass’d,  and  tir’d  at  last,  with  for- 
tune’s vain  delusion,  0, 

I dropt  my  schemes,  like  idle  dreams,  and  came 
to  this  conclusion,  O, 

The  past  was  bad,  and  the  future  hid ; its  good 
or  ill  untried.  O ; 

But  the  present  hour  was  in  my  pow’r,  and  so 
I would  enjoy  it,  O. 

No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view,  had  I,  nor  person 
to  befriend  me,  O, 

So  I must  toil,  and  sweat,  and  broil,  and  labor 
to  sustain  me,  O ; 

To  plough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow,  my  fa- 
ther  bred  me  early,  0 ; 

For  one,  he  said,  to  labor  bred,  was  a match  for 
fortune  fairly,  O. 

Thus  all  obscure,  unknown,  and  poor,  thro’  life 
I’m  doom’d  to  wander,  O, 

Till  down  my  weary  bones  I lay  in  everlasting 
slumber,  0 ; 

No  view  nor  care,  but  shun  whate’er  might 
breed  me  pain  and  sorrow,  O, 

I live  to-day,  as  well's  I may,  regardless  of  to- 
morrow, 0. 

But  cheerful  still,  I am  as  well,  as  a monarch 
in  a palace,  O, 

Tho’  fortune’s  frown  still  hunts  me  down,  with 
all  her  wonted  malice,  0 ; 

I make,  indeed,  my  daily  bread,  but  ne’er  can 
make  it  farther,  O ; 

But  as  daily  bread  is  all  I need,  I do  not  much 
regard  her,  0. 

When  sometimes  by  my  labor  I earn  a little 
money,  0, 

Some  unforeseen  misfortune  comes  generally 
upon  me,  O ; 

♦ This  song  is  wild  rhapsody,  miserably  deficient  in 
versification ; but  as  the  sentiments  are  the  genuine 
feelings  of  my  heart,  for  that  reason  1 have  a particular 
pleasure  in  conning  it  over. — Bums’  JRtliques,  p.  329. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


107 


Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect,  or  my  good- 
natur’d  folly,  0 ; 

But  come  what  will,  I've  sworn  it  still,  I’ll  ne’er 
be  melancholy,  O. 

All  you,  who  follow  wealth  and  power  with  un- 
remitting ardor,  O, 

The  more  in  this  you  look  for  bliss,  you  leave 
your  view  the  farther,  O ; 

Had  you  the  wealth  Potosi  boasts,  or  nations 
to  adore  you,  O, 

A cheerful,  honest-hearted  clown,  I will  prefer 
before  you,  O. 


SONG. 

Tho’  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part, 

As  far’s  the  pole  and  line  ; 

Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart 
Should  tenderly  entwine. 

Tho’  mountains  frown,  and  deserts  howl, 
And  oceans  roar  between; 

Yet,  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul, 

I still  would  love  my  Jean. 


SONG. 

Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever ; 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  forever  ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I’ll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu’  twinkle  lights  me  ; 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I’ll  ne’er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 

Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy  : 

But  to  see  her,  was  to  love  her  ; 

Love  but  her,  and  love  forever. 

Had  we  never  lov’d  sae  kindly, 

Had  we  never  lov’d  sae  blindly, 

Never  met — or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne’er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 
Fare-thee-weel,  thou  best  and  dearest . 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love  and  pleasure  ! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  forever  ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I pledge  thee, 
Warring  sigh  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee. 


SONG. 

HOW  BANK  AN’  BRAE  ARE  CLAITH’d  IN  GREEN. 

Now  bank  an’  brae  are  claith’d  in  green, 
An’  scatter’d  cowslips  sweetly  spring ; 

By  Girvan’s  fairy  haunted  stream, 

The  birdies  flit  on  wanton  wing. 

To  Cassillis’  banks,  when  e’ening  fa’s, 
There  wi’  my  Mary  let  me  flee, 

There  catch  her  ilka  glance  of  love, 

The  bonnie  blink  o’  Mary’s  e’e  ! 


The  child  wha  boasts  o’  warld’s  wealth, 
Is  aften  laird  o’  meikle  care  ; 

But  Mary  she  is  a’  my  ain, 

Ah,  fortune  canna  gie  me  mair ! 

Then  let  me  range  by  Cassillis’  banks, 
Wi’  her  the  lassie  dear  to  me, 

And  catch  her  ilka  glance  o’  love, 

The  bonnie  blink  o’  Mary’s  e’e  ! 


SONG. 

THE  BONNIE  LAD  THAT’S  FAR  AWA. 

O how  can  I be  blithe  and  glad, 

Or  how  can  I gang  brisk  and  braw, 

When  the  bonnie  lad  that  I lo’e  best, 

Is  o’er  the  hills  and  far  awa  ? 

It’s  no  the  frosty  winter  wind. 

It’s  no  the  driving  drift  and  snaw  ; 

But  ay  the  tear  comes  in  my  e’e, 

To  think  on  him  that’s  far  awa 

My  father  pat  me  frae  his  door, 

My  friends  they  hae  disown’d  me  a’, 

But  I hae  ane  will  tak  my  part, 

The  bonnie  lad  that’s  far  awa. 

A pair  o’  gloves  he  gave  to  me, 

And  silken  snoods  he  gave  me  twa  ; 

And  I will  wear  them  for  his  sake, 

The  bonnie  lad  that’s  far  awa. 

The  weary  winter  soon  will  pass, 

And  spring  will  deed  the  birken-shaw ; 

And  my  sweet  babie  will  be  born. 

And  he’ll  come  hame  that’s  far  awa. 


SWEETEST  MAY, 

Altered  from  Allan  Ramsay’s  song: — 

“Here's  my  thumb,  I’ll  ne’er  beguile  ye.” 

Tea  Table  Miscellany , vol.  i.  p.  70. 

Sweetest  May,  let  love  inspire  thee  ; 
Take  a heart  which  he  desires  thee  ; 

As  thy  constant  slave  regard  it ; 

For  its  faith  and  truth  reward  it. 

Proof  o’  shot  to  birth  or  money, 

Not  the  wealthy,  but  the  bonnie  ; 

Not  high-born,  but  noble-minded, 

In  love’s  silken  band  can  bind  it. 


SONG. 

i’ll  AY  CA’  IN  BY  YON  TOWN. 

I’ll  ay  ca’  in  by  yon  town, 

And  by  yon  garden  green,  again ; 

I’ll  ay  ca’  in  by  yon  town, 

And  see  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 

There’s  nane  sail  ken,  there’s  nane  sail  guess. 
What  brings  me  back  the  gate  again, 

But  she,  my  fairest,  faithfu’  lass, 

And  stowlins  we  sail  meet  again. 

She’ll  wander  by  the  aiken  tree, 

When  trystin-time*  draws  near  again  ; 

And  when  her  lovely  form  I see, 

O haith,  she’s  doubly  dear  again  ! 

* Trystin-time— the  time  of  appointment. 


108 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


SONG. 

WHISTLE  O’ER  THE  LAVE  o’T. 

First  when  Maggy  was  my  care, 
Heav’n,  I thought,  was  in  her  air  ; 
Now  we’re  married — spier  nae  mair— 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. — 

Meg  was  meek,  and  Meg  was  mild, 
Bonnie  Meg  was  nature’s  child — 
Wiser  men  than  me’s  beguil’d  : 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

How  we  live,  my  Meg  and  me, 

How  we  love,  and  how  we  ’gree, 

I care  na  how  few  may  see  ; 

Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. — 

What  I wish,  were  maggot’s  meat, 
Dish’d  up  in  her  winding  sheet, 

I could  write — but  Meg  maun  see’t — 
Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 


SONG. 

YOUNG  JOCKEY. 

Young  Jockey  was  the  blithest  lad 
In  a’  our  town  or  here  awa  ; 

Fu’  blithe  he  w'histled  at  the  gaud, 

Fu’  lightly  danc’d  he  in  the  ha’  ! 

He  roos’d  my  e’en  sae  bonnie  blue, 

He  roos’d  my  waist  sae  gently  sma ; 

An’  ay  my  heart  came  to  my  mou, 

When  ne’er  a body  heard  or  saw. 

My  Jockey  toils  upon  the  plain, 

Thro’  wind  and  weet,  thro’  frost  and  snaw ; 

And  o’er  the  lee  I leuk  fu’  fain 
When  Jockey’s  owsen  hameward  ea’, 

An’  ay  the  night  comes  round  again, 

When  in  his  arms  he  taks  me  a’ : 

And  ay  he  vows  he’ll  be  my  ain, 

As  lang’s  he  has  a breath  to  draw. 


SONG. 

m’therson’s  farewell. 

Tune — “ M’Pherson’s  Lament.” 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 
The  wretch’s  destinie  ! 

M’Pherson’s  tune  will  not  be  long, 

On  yonder  gallows  tree. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly , 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he  ; 

Tie  play'd  a spring  and  danc'd  it  round, 
Below  the  gallows  tree. 

Oh,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath  ? — 
On  mony  a bloody  plain 
I’ve  dar’d  his  face,  and  in  this  place 
I scorn  him  yet  again  ! 

Sae  rantingly , fyc. 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands, 
And  bring  to  me  my  sword  ; 

And  there’s  no  a man  in  all  Scotland, 

But  I’ll  brave  him  at  a word. 

Sae  rantingly,  <£*c. 


I’ve  liv’d  a life  of  sturt  and  strife  ; 

I die  by  treacherie  : 

It  burns  my  heart,  I must  depart, 

And  not  dvenged  be. 

Sae  rantingly,  $-c. 

Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 
And  all  beneath  the  sky  ! 

May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die  ! 

Sae  rantingly,  c J-c. 


SONG 

Here’s  a bottle  and  an  honest  friend  ! 

What  wad  ye  wish  for  mair,  man  ? 
Wha  kens,  before  his  life  may  end, 
What  his  share  may  be  of  care,  man  ? 
Then  catch  the  moments  as  they  fly, 
And  use  them  as  ye  ought,  man : — 
Believe  me,  happiness  is  shy, 

And  comes  not  ay  when  sought,  man. 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Braes  o’  Balquhidder." 

I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

An'  I'll  kiss  thee  o'er  again, 

An’  I’ll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

My  bonnie  Peggy  Alison  ! 

Ilk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  near, 
I ever  mair  defy  them,  O ; 

Young  kings  upon  their  hansel  throne, 
Are  no  sae  blest  as  I am,  O I 
I'll  kiss  thee,  (f-c. 

When  in  my  arms,  wi’  a’  thy  charms, 
I clasp  my  countless  treasure,  O ; 

I seek  nae  mair  o’  Heaven  to  share, 
Than  sic  a moment’s  pleasure,  O. 
I'll  kiss  thee,  fyc. 

And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue, 

I swear  I’m  thine  forever,  O ; 

And  on  thy  lips  I seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I never,  O. 

I'll  kiss  thee,  4*c. 


SONG. 

Tune— “ If  he  be  a Butcher  neat  and  trim.19 

On  Cessnock  banks  there  lives  a lass, 

Could  I describe  her  shape  and  mien ; 

The  graces  of  her  weelfar’d  face, 

And  the  glancin  of  her  sparklin  een. 

She’s  fresher  than  the  morning  dawn, 

When  rising  Phcebus  first  is  seen, 

When  dew-drops  twinkle  o’er  the  lawn ; 

An’  she’s  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

She’s  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash, 

That  grows  the  cowslip  braes  between, 
And  shoots  its  head  above  each  bush  ; 

An’  she’s  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

She’s  spotless  as  the  flow’ring  thorn, 

With  flow’rs  so  white  and  leaves  so  green. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


109 


When  purest  in  the  dewy  morn  ; 

An’  she’s  twa  glanein  sparklin  een. 

Her  looks  are  like  the  sportive  lamb; 

When  fiow’ry  May  adorns  the  scene, 
That  wantons  round  its  bleating  dam; 

An1  she’s  twa  glanein  sparklin  een. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist 

That  shades  the  mountain-side  at  e’en, 
When  flow’r-reviving  rains  are  past ; 

An'  she's  twa  glanein  sparklin  een. 

Her  forehead’s  like  the  show’ry  bow, 
When  shining  sunbeams  intervene 
And  gild  the  distant  mountain’s  brow  ; 

An’  she’s  twa  glanein  sparklin  een. 

Her  voice  is  like  the  ev’ning  thrush 
That  sings  in  Cessftock  banks  unseen, 
While  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush  ; 
An’  she’s  twa  glanein  sparklin  een. 

Her  lips  are  like  the  cherries  ripe, 

That  sunny  walls  from  Boreas  screen. 
They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the  sight ; 
An’  she's  twa  glanein  sparklin  een. 

Her  teeth  are  like  a flock  of  sheep, 

With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean. 

That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep  ; 

An’  she’s  twa  glanein  sparklin  een. 

Her  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossom’d  bean, 
When  Phoebus  sinks  behind  the  seas  ; 

An'  she’s  twa  glanein  sparklin  een. 

But  it’s  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face, 
Tho’  matching  beauty’s  fabled  queen, 
But  the  mind  that  shines  in  ev’ry  grace, 
An’  chiefly  in  her  sparklin  een. 


WAE  IS  MY  HEART. 

W a E is  my  heart,  and  the  tear’s  in  my  e’e  ; 
Lang,  lang  joy’s  been  a stranger  to  rue  : 
Forsaken  and  friendless,  my  burden  I bear,  [ear. 
And  the  sweet  voice  o’  pity  ne’er  sounds  in  my 

Love,  thou  hast  pleasure  ; and  deep  hae  I loved  ; 
Love,  thou  hast  sorrows  ; and  sair  hae  I proved  : 
But  this  bruised  heart  that  now  bleeds  in  my 
breast, 

I can  feel  by  its  throbbings,  will  soon  be  at  rest. 

O if  I were,  where  happy  I hae  been  ; [green  : 
Down  by  yon  stream  and  yon  bonnie  castle 
For  there  he  is  wand’ring  and  musing  on  me, 
Wha  wad  soon  dry  the  tear  frae  Phillis’s  e’e. 


SONG. 

Tcne — “ Banks  of  Banna.’’ 

Yestreen  I had  a pint  o’  wine, 

A place  where  body  saw  na’ ; 
Yestreen-  lay  on  this  breast  o’  mine 
The  gowden  locks  of  Anna. 

The  hungry  Jew  in  wilderness 
Rejoicing  o’er  his  manna, 

Was  naething  to  my  hiney  bliss 
Upon  the  lips  of  Anna. 


Ye  monarchs,  tak  the  east  and  west, 
Frae  Indus  to  Savanna  ! 

Gie  me  within  my  straining  grasp 
The  melting  form  of  Anna. 

There  I’ll  despise  imperial  charms, 

An  Empress  or  Sultana, 

While  dying  raptures  in  her  arms 
I give  and  take  with  Anna  ! 

Awa  thou  flaunting  god  o’  day  ! 

Awa  thou  pale  Diana  ! 

Ilk  star  gae  hide  thy  twinkling  ray 
When  I’m  to  meet  my  Anna. 

Come,  in  thy  raven  plumage,  night. 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  withdrawn  a’; 

And  bring  an  angel  pen  to  write 
My  transports  wi’  my  Anna  ! 


SONG* 

The  Deil  cam  fiddling  thro’  the  town. 

And  danc’d  awa  wi’  the  exciseman ; 

And  ilka  wife  cry’d,  Auld  Mahoun, 

We  wish  you  luck  o’  the  prize,  man. 

“ We'll  mak  our  maut,  and  brew  our  drink, 
W e'll  dance,  and  sing,  and  rejoice,  man  ; 
And  mony  thanks  to  the  muckle  black  Deil, 
That  danc'd  awa  wi'  the  exciseman. 

“ There’s  threesome  reels,  and  foursome  reels, 
There’s  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man  ; 

But  the  ae  best  dance  e’er  cam  to  our  lan’. 

Was — the  Deil’s  awa  wi’  the  exciseman. 
We'll  mak  our  maut, 


SONG. 

Powers  celestial,  whose  protection 
Ever  guards  the  virtuous  fair, 

While  in  distant  climes  I wander, 

Let  my  Mary  be  your  care  : 

Let  her  form,  sae  fair  and  faultless, 

Fair  and  faultless  as  your  own  ; 

Let  my  Mary’s  kindred  spirit, 

Draw  your  choicest  influencQ  down. 

Make  the  gales  you  waft  around  her, 

Soft  and  peaceful  as  her  breast ; 
Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her, 
Soothe  her  bosom  into  rest : 

Guardian  angels,  O protect  her, 

When  in  distant  lands  I roam; 

To  realms  unknown  while  fate  exiles  me, 
Make  her  bosom  still  my  home.t 


HUNTING  SONG. 

I RED  YOU  BEWARE  AT  THE  HUNTING-. 

The  heather  was  blooming,  the  meadows  were 
mawn, 

Our  lads  gacd  a-hunting,  ae  day  at  the  dawn, 
O’er  moors  and  o’er  mosses,  and  mony*  a glen. 
At  length  they  discovered  a bonnie  moor-hen. 

* At  a meeting  of  his  brother  Excisemen  in  Dumfries. 
Burns,  being  called  upon  for  a song,  handed  these 
verses  extempore  to  the  President,  written  on  the  back 
of  a letter. 

t Probably  written  on  Highland  Mary,  on  the  eve 
of  the  Poet’s  departure  to  the  West  Indies. 


110 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


I red  you  beware  at  the  hunting,  young  men; 
I red  you  beware  at  the  hunting,  young  men; 
Tak  some  on  the  wing,  and.  some  as  they  spring, 
But  cannily  steal  on  the  bonnie  moor-hen. 

Sweet  brushing  the  dew  from  the  brown  hea- 
ther bells, 

Her  colors  betray’d  her  on  yon  mossy  fells ; 
Her  plumage  outlustred  the  pride  o’  the  spring, 
And  O 1 as  she  wantoned  gay  on  the  wing. 

I red,  (f-c. 

Auld  Phoebus  himsel,  as  he  peep’d  o’er  the  hill, 
In  spite  at  her  plumage  he  tried  his  skill ; 

He  levell’d  his  rays  where  she  bask’d  on  the 
brae — 

His  rays  were  outshone,  and  but  mark’d  where 
she  lay.  I red,  $-c. 

They  hunted  the  valley,  they  hunted  the  hill ; 
The  best  of  our  lads  wi’  the  best  o’  their  skill ; 
But  still  as  the  fairest  she  sat  in  their  sight, 
Then,  whirr ! she  was  over,  a mile  at  a flight. 

I red,  4 -c. 

* * * * * 


YOUNG  PEGGY. 

Young  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  lass, 
Her  blush  is  like  the  morning, 

The  rosy  dawn,  the  springing  grass, 
With  early  gems  adorning  : 

Her  eyes  outshine  the  radiant  beams 
That  gild  the  passing  shower, 

And  glitter  o’er  the  crystal  streams, 

And  cheer  each  fresh’ning  flower. 

Her  lips  were  more  than  cherry  bright, 
A richer  die  has  grac’d  them, 

They  charm  the  admiring  gazer’s  sight, 
And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them  : 

Her  smile  is  as  the  ev’ning  mild, 

When  feather’d  pairs  are  courting, 
And  little  lambkins  wanton  wild, 

In  playful  bands  disporting. 

Were  Fortune  lovely  Peggy’s  foe, 

Such  sweetness  would  relent  her, 

As  blooming  Spring  unbends  the  brow 
Of  surly,  savage  Winter. 

Detraction’s  eyes  no  aim  can  gain 
Her  winning  powers  to  lessen  : 

And  fretful  envy  grins  in  vain, 

The  poison’d  tooth  to  fasten. 

Ye  pow’rs  of  Honor,  Love,  and  Truth, 
From  ev’ry  ill  defend  her; 

Inspire  the  highly  favor’d  youth 
The  destinies  intend  her ; 

Still  fan  the  sweet  connubial  flame 
Responsive  in  each  bosom  ; 

And  bless  the  dear  parental  name 
With  many  a filial  blossom.  * 


SONG. 

Tune — “The  King  of  France,  he  rade  a Race.” 

Amang  the  trees  where  humming  bees 
At  buds  and  flowers  were  hanging,  O, 

♦This  was  one  of  the  Poet’s  earliest  compositions. 
It  is  copied  from  a MS.  book,  which  he  had  before  his 
first  publication. 


Auld  Caledon  drew  out  her  drone, 

And  to  her  pipe  was  singing,  O ; 

’Twas  pibroch,  sang,  strathspey,  or  reels, 
She  dirl’d  them  aff,  fu’  clearly,  O, 
When  there  cam  a yell  o’  foreign  squeels, 
That  dang  her  tapsalteerie,  O. 

Their  capon  craws  and  queer  ha  ha’s, 
They  made  our  lugs  grow  eerie,  O, 
The  hungry  bike  did  scrape  an  pike 
Till  we  were  wae  and  weary,  O ; 

But  a royal  ghaist  wha  ance  was  cas’d 
A prisoner  aughteen  year  awa, 

He  fir’d  a fiddler  in  the  North, 

That  dang  them  tapsalteerie,  O. 
***** 


SONG. 

Tune — “ John  Anderson  my  Jo.” 

One  night  as  I did  wander, 

When  corn  begins  to  shoot, 

I sat  me  down  to  ponder, 

Upon  an  auld  tree  root : 

Auld  Aire  ran  by  before  me, 

And  bicker’d  to  the  seas  ; 

A cushat  crowded  o’er  me 
That  echoed  thro’  the  braes. 
***** 


SONG. 

Tune — “ Dainty  Davie.” 

Theke  was  a lad  was  born  at  Kyle,* 

But  what  na  day  o’  what  na  style 
I doubt  it’s  hardly  worth  the  while 
To  be  sae  nice  wi’  Robin. 

Robin  was  a rovin'  Boy, 

Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin'; 
Robin  was  a rovin'  Boy, 

Rantin'  rovin'  Rohm. 

Our  monarch’s  hindmost  year  but  ane 
Was  five  and  twenty  days  begun, 

’Twas  then  a blast  o’  Jan  war  Win’ 
Blew  hansel  in  on  Robin. 

The  gossip  keekit  in  his  loof, 

Quo’  scho  wha  lives  will  see  the  proof, 
This  waly  boy  will  be  nae  coo f, 

I think  we’ll  ca’  him  Robin. 

He’ll  hae  misfortunes  great  and  sma’, 
But  ay  a heart  aboon  them  a’ ; 

He’ll  be  a credit  till  us  a’, 

We’ll  a’  be  proud  o’  Robin. 

But  sure  as  three  times  three  mak  nine, 
I see  by  ilka  score  and  line, 

This  chap  will  dearly  like  our  kin’, 

So  leeze  me  on  thee,  Robin. 

Good  faith  quo’  scho  I doubt  you,  Sir, 
Ye  gar  the  lasses  * * * * 

But  twenty  fauts  ye  may  hae  waur, 

So  blessin’s  on  thee,  Robin  ! 

Robin  was  a rovin'  Boy, 

Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin  ; 
Robin  was  a rovin'  Boy, 

Rantin'  rovin'  Robin. 

* Kyle — a district  of  Ayrshire. 


BURNS’  POEMS 


111 


SONG. 

Tune — “I  had  a Horse,  and  I had  nae  mair? 

When  first  I came  to  Stewart  Kyle, 

My  mind  it  was  nae  steady, 

Where’er  I gaed,  where'er  I rade, 

A mistress  still  I had  ay  : 

But  when  I came  roun’  by  Mauchline  town, 
Not  dreadin’  any  body. 

My  heart  was  caught  before  I thought, 

And  by  a Mauchline  lady. 

***** 


SONG. 

TrifE — “ Galla  Water.” 

Altho’  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir. 

Amang  the  heather,  in  my  plaidie, 

Yet  happy,  happy  would  I be. 

Had  I my  dear  Montgomerie’s  Peggy. — 

When  o’er  the  hill  beat  surly  storms, 

And  winter  nights  were  dark  and  rainy; 
I’ll  seek  some  dell,  and  in  my  arms 
I’d  shelter  dear  Montgomerie's  Peggy. 

Were  I a Baron  proud  and  high, 

And  horse  and  servants  waiting  ready, 
Then  a’  ’twad  gie  o’  joy  to  me, 

The  sharin’t  with  Montgomerie’s  Peggy. 
* * * * * 


SONG. 

0 raging-  fortune’s  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  O ! 

O raging  fortune’s  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  O ! 

My  stem  was  fair,  my  bud  was  green, 
My  blossom  sweet  did  blow,  O ; 

The  dew  fell  fresh,  the  sun  rose  mild, 
And  made  my  branches  grow,  O ; 

But  luckless  fortune’s  northern  storms 
Laid  a’  my  blossoms  low,  O ; 

But  luckless  fortune’s  nothern  storms 
Laid  a’  my  blossoms  low,  O. 
***** 


SONG. 

Patriotic — unfinished. 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa  ; 

And  wha  winna  wish  guid  luck  to  our  cause, 
May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa’. 

It’s  guid  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

It’s  guid  to  be  honest  and  true, 

It’s  guid  to  support  Caledonia’s  cause, 

And  bide  by  the  buff  and  the  blue. 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa ; 

Here’s  a health  to  Charlie,*  the  chief  o' the  clan, 
Altho’  that  his  band  be  but  sma\ 

May  liberty  meet  wi’  success  ! 

May  prudence  protect  her  frae  evil ! 

*C.  Fox. 


May  tyrants  and  tyranny  tine  in  the  mist, 

And  wander  their  way  to  the  devil ! 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here’s  a health  to  Tammie,*  the  N orland  laddie, 
That  lives  at  the  lug  o’  the  law  ! 

Here’s  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read, 

Here’s  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write ! [heard, 
There’s  nane  ever  fear’d  that  the  truth  should  be 
But  they  wham  the  truth  wad  indict. 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa, 

Here’s  a health  to  them  that’s  awa,  [gowd, 
Here’s  chieftain  M’Leod,  a chieftain  worth 
Tho’  bred  amang  mountains  o’  snaw  ! 
***** 


SONG. 

THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

As  I was  a- wand’ ring  ae  morning  in  spring, 

I heard  a young  ploughman  sae  sweetly  to  sing, 
And  as  he  was  singin’  thir  words  he  did  say, 
There’s  nae  life  like  the  ploughman’s,  in  the 
month  o’  sweet  May. — 

The  lav’rock  in  the  morning,  she’ll  rise  frae  her 
nest,  [breast, 

And  mount  to  the  air  wi’  the  dew  on  her 
And  wi’  the  merry  ploughman  she’ll  whistle 
and  sing, 

And  at  night  she’ll  return  to  her  nest  back  again. 


SONG. 

Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven’s  wing, 
Adown  her  neck  and  bosom  hing  ; 
How  sweet  unto  that  breast  to  cling, 
And  round  that  neck  entwine  her  ! 
Her  lips  are  roses  wat  wi’  dew, 

O,  what  a feast,  her  bonnie  mou  ! 
Her  cheeks  a mair  celestial  hue, 

A crimson  still  diviner. 


BALLAD. 

To  thee,  lov’d  Nith,  thy  gladsome  plains, 
Where  late  wi’  careless  thought  I rang’d. 
Though  prest  wi’  care,  and  sunk  in  wo, 

To  thee  I bring  a heart  unchang’d. 

I love  thee,  Nith,  thy  banks  and  braes, 

Tho’  mem’ry  there  my  bosom  tear ; 

For  there  he  rov’d  that  brake  my  heart, 

Yet  to  that  heart,  ah,  still  how  dear ! 


SONG. 

The  winter  it  is  past,  and  the  simmer  comes  at 
last, 

And  the  small  birds  sing  on  every  tree  ; 

Now  every  thing  is  glad,  while  I am  very  sad, 
Since  my  true  love  is  parted  from  me. 

* Lord  Erskine. 


t 


112  BURNS’ 

The  rose  upon  the  brier,  by  the  waters  running 
clear, 

May  have  charms  for  the  linnet  or  the  bee  ; 
Their  little  loves  are  blest,  and  their  little  hearts 
at  rest, 

But  my  true  love  is  parted  from  me. 


THE 

GUIDWIFE  OF  WAUC  HOPE-HOUSE 

TO 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

February , 1787. 

My  canty,  witty,  rhyming  ploughman, 

I hafflins  doubt,  it  is  na  true,  man, 

That  ye  between  the  stilts  were  bred, 

Wi’  ploughmen  school’d,  wi’  ploughmen  fed. 

I doubt  it  sair,  ye’ve  drawn  your  knowledge 
Either  frae  grammar-school,  or  college. 

Guid  troth,  your  saul  and  body  baith 
War’  better  fed,  I’d  gie  my  aith, 

Than  theirs,  who  sup  sour-milk  and  parritch, 
An’  bummil  thro’  the  single  caritch. 

Wha  ever  heard  the  ploughman  speak, 

Could  tell  gif  Homer  was  a Greek? 

He’d  flee  as  soon  upon  a cudgel, 

As  get  a single  line  of  Virgil. 

An’  then  sae  slee  ye  crack  your  jokes 
O’  Willie  P — t and  Charlie  F — x ; 

Our  great  men  a’  sae  weel  descrive, 

An’  how  to  gar  the  nation  thrive, 

Ane  maist  wad  swear  ye  dwalt  amang  them, 
An’  as  ye  saw  them,  sae  ye  sang  them. 

But  be  ye  ploughman,  be  ye  peer, 

Ye  are  a funny  blade,  I swear ; 

An’  though  the  cauld  I ill  can  bide. 

Yet  twenty  miles,  an’  mair,  I’d  ride, 

O’er  moss,  an’  muir,  an’  never  grumble, 

Tho’  my  auld  yad  shou'd  gie  a stumble, 

To  crack  a winter-night  wi’  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sangs  and  sonnets  slee. 

A guid  saul  herring,  an’  a cake, 

Wi’  sic  a chiel,  a feast  wad  make, 

I’d  rather  scour  your  reaming  y ill. 

Or  eat  o’  cheese  and  bread  my  fill, 

Than  wi’  dull  lairds  on  turtle  dine, 

An’  ferlie  at  their  wit  and  wine. 

O.  gif  I kenn’d  but  whare  ye  baide, 

I’d  send  to  you  a marled  plaid  ; 

yTwad  haud  your  shoulders  warm  and  braw, 

An’  douse  at  kirk,  or  market  shaw. 

For  south,  as  weel  as  north,  my  lad, 

A’  honest  Scotchmen  lo’e  the  maud. 

Right  wae  that  we’re  sae  far  frae  ilher; 

Yet  proud  I am  to  ca’  ye  briiher. 

Your  most  obed’t. 

E.  S. 


THE  ANSWER. 

Guidwife, 

I mind  it  weel,  in  early  date, 

When  I was  beardless,  young,  and  blate, 
An’  first  could  thresh  the  barn  ; 

Or  haud  a yokin  at  the  pleugh, 


POEMS. 

An’  tho’  forfoughten  sair  enough, 

Yet  unco  proud  to  learn  ; 

When  first  amang  the  yellow  corn 
A man  1 reckon’d  was, 

And  wi’  the  lave  ilk  merry  morn 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass, 

Still  shearing,  and  clearing 
The  tither  stooked  raw, 

Wi’  claivers,  an’  haivers, 

Wearing  the  day  awa, — 

E’n  then  a wish,  (I  mind  its  power) 

A wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 
Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast ; 

That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  usefu’  plan,  or  book  could  make, 

Or  sing  a sang  at  least ; 

The  rough  bur-thistle,  spreading  wide 
Among  the  bearded  bear, 

I turn’d  my  weeding-heuk  aside, 

An’  spar’d  the  symbol  dear  ; 

No  nation,  no  station, 

My  envy  e’er  could  raise, 

A Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 

I knew  nae  higher  praise. 

But  still  the  elements  o’  sang 
In  formless  jumble,  right  an’  wrang, 

Wild  floated  in  my  brain; 

Till  on  that  har’st  I said  before, 

My  partner  in  the  merry  core, 

She  rous’d  the  forming  strain ; 

I see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  quean, 

That  lighted  up  her  jingle, 

Her  witching  smile,  her  pauky  e’en, 

That  gart  my  heart-strings  tingle; 

I fired,  inspired, 

At  ev’ry  kindling  keek, 

But  bashing,  and  dashing, 

I feared  ay  to  speak. 

Hale  to  the  set,  each  guid  chiel  says, 

Wi’  merry  dance  in  winter-days, 

An’  we  to  share  in  common  : 

The  gust  o’  joy,  the  balm  of  wo, 

The  saul  o’  life,  the  heav’n  below, 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 

Ye  surly  sumphs,  who  hate  the  name, 

Be  mindfu’  o’  your  mither  : 

She,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame, 
That  ye’re  connected  with  her. 

Ye’re  wae  men,  ye’re  nae  men, 

That  slight  the  lovely  dears  ; 

To  shame  ye,  disclaim  ye, 

Ilk  honest  birkie  swears. 

For  you,  na  bred  to  barn  and  byre, 

Wha  sweetly  tune  the  Scottish  lyre, 
Thanks  to  you  for  your  line. 

The  marled  plaid  ye  kindly  spare, 

By  me  should  gratefully  be  ware  ; 

’Twad  please  me  to  the  Nine. 

I’d  be  mair  vauntie  o’  my  hap, 

Douse  hingin  o’er  my  curple, 

Than  ony  ermine  ever  lap, 

Or  proud  imperial  purple. 

Farewuel  then,  lang  hale  then, 

An’  plenty  be  your  fa’: 

May  losses  and  crosses 
Ne’er  at  your  hallan  ca’. 

Robert  Burns. 

March,  1787. 


BURNS’ 

SONG. 

Tune — “ The  tither  mom,  as  I forlorn.” 

Yon  wand’ring  rill,  that  marks  the  hill, 

And  glances  o’er  the  brae,  Sir  : 

Slides  by  a bower  where  mony  a flower, 
Sheds  fragrance  on  the  day,  Sir. 

There  Damon  lay,  with  Sylvia  gay: 

To  love  they  thought  nae  crime,  Sir; 

The  wild-birds  sang,  the  echoes  rang, 

While  Damon’s  heart  beat  time,  Sir. 


SONG. 

As  I cam  in  by  our  gate-end, 

As  day  was  waxen  weary  ; 

O wha  cam  tripping  down  the  street, 
But  bonnie  Peg,  my  dearie. 

Her  air  sae  sweet,  and  shape  complete, 
Wi’  nae  proportion  wanting  ; 

The  queen  of  love,  did  never  move, 

Wi’  motion  mair  enchanting. 

Wi'  linked  hands,  we  took  the  sands, 
Adown  yon  winding  river, 

And,  oh  ! that  hour,  an’  broomy  bower, 
Can  I forget  it  ever  ? 


POLLY  STEWART. 

Tune — “ Ye’re  welcome,  Charlie  Stewart.” 

O lovely  Polly  Stewart, 

O charming  Polly  Stewart, 

There’s  ne’er  a flower  that  blooms  in  May, 
That’s  half  so  fair  as  thou  art. 

The  flower  it  blaws,  it  fades,  it  fa’s, 

And  art  can  ne'er  renew  it ; 

But  worth  and  truth,  eternal  youth 
Will  gie  to  Polly  Stewart. 

May  he,  whase  arms  shall  fauld  thy  charms, 
Possess  a leal  and  true  heart ; 

To  him  be  given  to  ken  the  heaven 
He  grasps  in  Polly  Stewart! 


THERE  WAS  A BONNIE  LASS. 

There  was  a bonnie  lass,  and  a bonnie,  bonnie 
lass, 

And  she  lo’ed  her  bonnie  laddie  dear ; [arms, 
Till  war’s  loud  alarms  tore  her  laddie  frae  her 
Wi’  mony  a sigh  and  a tear.  [roar, 

Over  sea,  over  shore,  where  the  cannons  loudly 
He  still  was  a stranger  to  fear  ; 

And  notcht  could  him  quell,  or  his  bosom  assail, 
But  the  bonnie  lass  he  lo'ed  sae  dear. 

TIBBIE  DUNBAR. 

Tune— “ Johnny  M’Gill.” 

O wilt  thou  go  wi’  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ; 
O wilt  thou  go  wi’  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar: 
Wilt  thou  ride  on  a horse,  or  be  drawn  in  a car, 
Or  walk  by  my  side,  O sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 

8 


POEMS.  113 

I carena  thy  daddie,  his  lands  and  his  money, 

I carena  thy  kin.  sae  high  and  sae  lordly  : 

But  say  thou  wilt  hae  me  for  better  for  waur, 
And  come  in  thy  coatie,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar. 


ROBIN  SHURE  IN  HAIRST. 

Robin  shure  in  hairst, 

I shure  wi ’ him, 

Fient.  a heuk  had  I, 

Yet  1 stack  by  him. 

I gaed  up  to  Dunse, 

To  warp  a wad  o’  plaiden, 

At  his  daddie’s  yett, 

Wha  met  me  but  Robin ! 

Robin  shure , $-c. 

Was  na  Robin  banld, 

Tho’  I was  a cotter, 

Play’d  me  sic  a trick, 

And  me  the  eller’s  dochter  ? 
Robin  shtire , cf-c. 

Robin  promis’d  me 
A’  my  winter  vittle  ; 

Fient  haet  he  had  but  three 
Goose  feathers  and  a whittle. 
Robin  shure,  <$-c. 


MY  LADY’S  GOWN  THERE’S  GAIRS 
UFON’T. 

My  lady's  gown  there  s gairs  upon't. 

And  gowden flowers  sae  rare  upon't; 

But  Jenny' s jimps  and  jirkinet, 

My  lord  thinks  muckle  mair  upon't. 

My  lord  a-hunting  he  is  gane, 

But  hounds  or  hawks  wi’  him  are  nane. 

By  Colin’s  cottage  lies  his  game, 

If  Colin’s  Jenny  be  at  hame. 

My  lady's  gown,  fye. 

My  lady’s  white,  my  lady’s  red. 

And  kith  and  kin  o’  Cassillis’  blude. 

But  her  ten-pund  lands  o’  tocher  guid, 

Were  a’  the  charms  his  lordship  lo’ed. 

My  lady's  gown,  <$-c. 

Out  o’er  yon  moor,  out  o’er  yon  moss, 
Whare  gor-cocks  ihro’  the  heather  pass, 
There  wons  auld  Colin’s  bonnie  lass, 

A lily  in  a wilderness. 

My  lady's  govm,  fyc. 

Sae  sweetly  move  her  genty  limbs, 

Like  music  notes  o’  lover’s  hymns ; 

The  diamond  dew  in  her  een  sae  blue, 
Where  laughing  love  sac  wanion  swims. 

My  lady's  gown,  <§-c. 

My  lady’s  dink,  my  lady’s  drest, 

The  flower  and  fancy  o’  the  west ; 

But  the  lassie  that  a man  lo’es  best, 

O that’s  the  lass  to  make  him  blest. 

My  lady' s govm,  <$-c. 


114 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


WEE  WILLIE  GRAY. 

Wee  Willie  Gray,  and  his  leather  wallet 
Peel  a willow- wand  to  be  him  boots  and  jacket : 
The  rose  upon  the  brier  will  be  him  trouse  and 
doublet,  [doublet. 

The  rose  upon  the  brier  will  be  him  trouse  and 

Wee  Willie  Gray,  and  his  leather  wallet ; 
Twice  a lily  flower  will  be  in  him  sark  and 
cravat : 

Feathers  of  a flee  wad  feather  up  his  bonnet, 
Feathers  of  a flee  wad  feather  up  his  bonnet. 


THE  BELLES  OF  MAUCHLINE. 

This  is  one  of  oar  Bard’s  early  productions. — Miss 
Armour  was  afterwards  Mrs.  Burns. 

Tune — “Bonnie  Dundee .” 

In  Mauchline  there  dwells  six  proper  young 
belles, 

The  pride  of  the  place  and  its  neighborhood  a’, 
Their  carriage  and  dress,  a stranger  would  guess, 
In  Lon’on  or  Paris  they’d  gotten  it  a’: 

Miss  Miller  is  fine,  Miss  Markland’s  divine, 
Miss  Smith  she  has  wit,  and  Miss  Betty  is 
braw ; [ton, 

There’s  beauty  and  fortune  to  get  wi1  Miss  Nor- 
But  Armour ’s  the  jewel  for  me  o’  them  a’. 


COULD  AUGHT  OF  SONG. 

Could  aught  of  song  declare  my  pains, 
Could  artful  numbers  move  thee. 

The  muse  should  tell,  in  labor’d  strains, 

O Mary,  how  I love  thee. 

They  who  but  feign  a wounded  heart, 
May  teach  the  lyre  to  languish  ; 

But  what  avails  the  pride  of  art, 

When  wastes  the  soul  with  anguish. 

Then  let  the  sudden  bursting  sigh 
The  heart-felt  pang  discover  ; 

And  in  the  keen,  yet  tender  eye, 

O read  th’  imploring  lover. 

For  well  I know  thy  gentle  mind 
Disdains  art’s  gay  disguising  ; 

Beyond  what  fancy  e’er  refin’d, 

The  voice  of  nature  prizing. 


O GUID  ALE  COMES. 

0 guid  ale  comes,  and  guid  ale  goes, 
Guid  ale  gars  me  sell  my  hose, 

Sell  my  hose,  and  pawn  my  shoon, 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 

1 ha 4 sax  owsen  in  a pleugh, 

They  drew  a’  weel  enough, 

I sell’d  them  a’  just  ane  by  ane  ; 

Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 

Guid  ale  hauds  me  bare  and  busy, 
Gars  me  moop  wi’  the  servant  hizzie, 
Stand  i’  the  stool  when  I hae  done, 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 

O guid  ale  comes  and  guid  ale  goes, 
Guid  ale  gars  me  sell  my  hose, 

Sell  my  hose,  and  pawn  my  shoon ; 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 


O LEAVE  NOVELS. 

O leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles, 
Ye’re  safer  at  your  spinning-wheel ; 

Such  witching  books,  are  baited  hooks 
For  rakish  rooks,  like  Rob  Mossgiel. 

Your  fine  Tom  Jones  and  Grandisons, 
They  make  your  youthful  fancies  ree. 

They  heat  your  brains,  and  fire  your  veins, 
And  then  you’re  prey  for  Rob  Mossgiel. 

Beware  a tongue  that’s  smoothly  hung : 

A heart  that  warmly  seems  to  feel ; 

That  feeling  heart  but  acts  a part, 

’Tis  rakish  art  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 

The  frank  address,  the  soft  caress, 

Are  worse  than  poisoned  darts  of  steel; 

The  frank  address,  and  politesse, 

Are  all  finesse  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 


O AY  MY  WIFE  SHE  DANG  ME 

0 ay  my  wife  she  dang  me , 

An'  aft  my  wife  she  bang'd  me  ; 

If  yp  gie  a woman  a’  her  will, 

Guid  faith  she'll  soon  o'jergang  ye. 

On  peace  and  rest  my  mind  was  bent, 
And  fool  I was,  I marry’d  ; 

But  never  honest  man’s  intent 
As  cursedly  miscarry’d. 

0 ay  my  wife,  4>c. 

Some  sairie  comfort  still  at  last, 

When  a’  thir  days  are  done,  man, 

My  pains  o’  hell  on  earth  is  past, 

I’m  sure  o’  bliss  aboon,  man. 

0 ay  my  wife,  $c. 


THE  DEUKS  DANG  O’ER  MY  DADDIE. 

The  bairns  gat  out  wi’  an  unco  shout, 

The  deuks  dang  o’er  my  daddie,  O ! 

The  fient  ma  care,  quo’  the  feirie  auld  wife, 
He  was  but  a paidlin  body,  O ! 

He  paidles  out,  and  he  paidles  in, 

An’  he  paidles  late  and  earlie.  O ; 

This  seven  lang  years  I hae  lien  by  his  side, 
An’  he  is  but  a fusionless  earlie,  O. 

0 haud  your  tongue,  my  feirie  auld  wife, 

O haud  your  tongue  now,  Nansie,  O : 

I’ve  seen  the  day,  and  sae  hae  ye, 

Ye  wadna  been  sae  donsie,  O : 

I’ve  seen  the  day  ye  butter’d  my  brose, 

And  cuddl’d  me  late  and  earlie,  O ; 

But  downa  do’s  come  o’er  me  now, 

And,  oh,  I find  it  sairly,  O ! 


DELIA. 

AN  ODE. 

Fair  the  face  of  orient  day, 

Fair  the  tints  of  op’ning  rose ; 

But  fairer  still  my  Delia  dawns, 
More  lovely  iar  her  beauty  blows. 

Sweet  the  lark’s  wild-warbled  lay, 
Sweet  the  tinkling  rill  to  hear  ; 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


115 


But,  Delia,  more  delightful  still, 

Steal  thine  accents  on  mine  ear. 

The  llower-enamor’d  busy  bee, 

The  rosy  banquet  loves  to  sip ; 

Sweet  the  streamlet’s  limpid  lapse 
To  the  sun-brown’d  Arab’s  lip. 

But,  Delia,  on  thy  balmy  lips 
Let  me,  no  vagrant  insect,  rove  ! 

O let  me  steal  one  liquid  kiss, 

For  oh ! my  soul  is  parch’d  with  love  1 


ON  A BANK  OF  FLOWERS. 

On  a bank  of  flowers  one  summer’s  day, 
For  summer  lightly  dress’d, 

The  youthful,  blooming  Nelly  lay, 

With  love  and  sleep  oppress’d  ; 

When  Willy,  wand’ring  thro’  the  wood, 
Who  for  her  favor  oft  had  su’d, 

He  gaz’d,  he  wish’d,  he  fear’d,  he  blush’d, 
And  trembled  where  he  stood. 

Her  closed  eyes,  like  weapons  sheath’d, 
Were  seal’d  in  soft  repose, 

Her  lips  still  as  they  fragrant  breath’d, 

It  richer  dy’d  the  rose. 

The  springing  lilies  sweetly  press’d, 

Wild  wanton  kiss’d  her  rival  breast ; 

He  gaz’d,  he  wish’d,  he  fear’d,  he  blush’d, 
His  bosom  ill  at  rest. 

Her  robes,  light  waving  in  the  breeze, 

Her  tender  limbs  embrace, 

Her  lovely  form,  her  native  ease, 

All  harmony  and  grace. 

Tumultuous  tides  his  pulses  roll, 

A flattering,  ardent  kiss  he  stole : 

He  gaz’d,  he  wish’d,  he  fear’d,  he  blush’d, 
And  sigh’d  his  very  soul. 

As  flies  the  partridge  from  the  brake. 

On  fear  inspired  wings  ; 

So  Nelly  startling,  halt  awake, 

Away  affrighted  springs. 

But  Willy  follow’d  as  he  should, 

He  overtook  her  in  the  wood, 

He  vow’d,  he  pray’d,  he  found  the  maid 
Forgiving  all  and  good. 


EVAN  BANKS. 

Snow  spreads  the  gloom  my  soul  desires, 
The  sun  from  India’s  shore  retires  ; 

To  Evan’s  banks  with  temperate  ray, 
Home  of  my  youth,  it  leads  the  day. 

Oh  ! banks  to  me  forever  dear; 

Oh  ! stream  whose  murmurs  still  I hear! 
All,  all  my  hopes  of  bliss  reside. 

Where  Evan  mingles  with  the  Clyde. 

And  she,  in  simple  beauty  drest, 

Whose  image  lives  within  my  breast ; 
Who  trembling  heard  my  parting  sigh, 
And  long  pursued  me  with  her  eye  •' 
Does  she  with  heart  unchang’d  a3  mine, 
Oft  in  thy  vocal  bowers  recline  ? 

Or  where  yon  grot  o’erhangs  the  tide, 
Muse  while  the  Evan  seeks  the  Clyde. 


Ye  lofty  banks  that  Evan  bound  ! 

Ye  lavish  woods  that  wave  around, 

And  o’er  the  stream  your  shadows  throw, 
Which  sweetly  winds  so  far  below  ; 

What  secret  charm  to  mem’ry  brings, 

All  that  on  Evan’s  border  springs  ( 

Sweet  banks  ! ye  bloom  by  Mary’s  side  ; 
Blest  stream ! she  views  thee  haste  to  Clyde. 

Can  all  the  wealth  of  India’s  coast 
Atone  for  years  in  absence  lost? 

Return,  ye  moments  of  delight, 

With  richer  treasure  bless  my  sight ! 

Swift  from  this  desert  let  me  part, 

And  fly  to  meet  a kindred  heart ! 

Nor  more  may  aught  my  steps  divide 
From  that  dear  stream  which  flows  to  Clyde. 


THE  FIVE  CARLINS. 

AN  ELECTION  BALLAD. 

Tune — “ Chevy  Chace.” 

There  were  five  Carlins  in  the  south, 

They  fell  upon  a scheme. 

To  send  a lad  to  Lon’on  town 
To  bring  us  tidings  hame. 

Not  only  bring  us  tidings  hame, 

But  do  our  errands  there, 

And  aiblins  gowd  and  honor  baith 
Might  be  that  laddie’s  share. 

There  was  Maggie  by  the  banks  o’  Nith,* 

A dame  wi’  pride  enough  ; 

And  Marjorie  o’  the  monie  Loch,+ 

A Carlin  auld  an’  teugh. 

And  blinkin  Bess  o’  Annandale,t 
That  dwells  near  Solway  side, 

And  whisky  Jean,  that  took  her  gill$ 

In  Galloway  so  wide. 

And  auld  black  Joan  frae  Creighton  peel,B 
O’  gipsy  kith  an’  kin, 

Five  weightier  Carlins  were  na  found, 

The  south  kintra  within. 

To  send  a lad  to  Lon’on  town. 

They  met  upon  a day. 

And  monie  a Knight  and  monie  a Laird 
That  errand  fain  would  gae. 

O ! monie  a Knight  and  monie  a Laird 
This  errand  fain  would  gae  ; 

But  nae  ane  could  their  fancy  please, 

O ! ne’er  a ane  but  twae. 

The  first  ane  was  a belted  Knight, 

Bred  o’  a border  band, 

An’  he  wad  gae  to  Lon’on  town,  _ 
Might  nae  man  him  withstand. 

And  he  wad  do  their  errands  weel, 

And  meikle  he  wad  say, 

And  ilka  ane  at  Lon’on  court, 

Wad  bid  to  him  guid  day. 

Then  niest  came  in  a sodger  youth. 

And  6pak  wi’  modest  grace, 

An’  he  wad  gae  to  Lon’on  town, 

If  sae  their  pleasure  was. 

♦Dumfries.  t Lochmaben.  JAnnoi)-. 

I Kiricudbright.  H Sanquhar. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


116 

He  wad  na  hecht  them  courtly  gift. 

Nor  meikle  speech  pretend  ; 

But  he  wad  hecht  an  honest  heart 
Wad  ne’er  desert  his  friend. 

Now  whom  to  choose  and  whom  refuse, 

To  strife  thae  Carlins  fell ; 

For  some  had  gentle  folks  to  please, 

And  some  wad  please  themsel. 

Then  out  spak  mim-mou’d  Meg  o’  Nilh, 
An’  she  spak  out  wi’  pride, 

An’  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth, 
Whatever  might  betide. 

For  the  auld  guidman  o’  Lon’on  court 
She  did  not  care  a pin, 

But  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth 
To  greet  his  eldest  son. 

Then  up  sprang  Bess  o’  Annandale : 

A deadly  aith  she’s  ta’en, 

That  she  wad  vote  the  border  Knight, 

Tho’  she  should  vole  her  lane. 

For  far  off  fowls  hae  feathers  fair, 

An’  fools  o’  change  are  fain  : 

But  I hae  tried  the  border  Knight, 

I’ll  try  him  yet  again. 

Says  auld  black  Joan  frae  Creighton  peel, 

A Carlin  stout  and  grim, 

The  auld  guidman  or  young  guidman, 

For  me  to  sink  or  swim  ! 

For  fools  may  prate  o’  right  and  wrang, 
While  knaves  laugh  them  to  scorn  ; 

But  the  sodger’s  friends  hae  blawn  the  best, 
Sae  he  shall  bear  the  horn. 

Then  whisky  Jean  spak  o’er  her  drink, 

Ye  weel  ken,  kimmers  a’, 

The  auld  guid  man  o’  Lon’on  court, 

His  back’s  been  at  the  wa’. 

And  monie  a friend  that  kiss’d  his  caup, 

Is  now  a frammit  wight ; 

But  it’s  ne’er  sae  wi’  whisky  Jean, 

We’ll  send  the  border  Knight. 

Then  slow  rose  Majorie  o’  the  Lochs, 

And  wrinkled  was  her  brow  ; 

Her  ancient  weed  was  russet  gray, 

Her  auld  Scots  heart  was  true. 

There’s  some  great  folks  set  light  by  me, 

I set  as  light  by  them  ; 

But  I will  send  to  Lon’on  town 
Wha  I lo’e  best  at  hame. 

So  how  this  weighty  plea  will  end, 

Nae  mortal  wight  can  tell ; 

G-d  grant  the  King  and  ilka  man 
May  look  weel  to  himsel. 


THE  LASS  THAT  MADETHE  BED 
TO  ME. 

When  January  winds  were  blawing  cauld, 

As  to  the  north  I bent  my  way, 

The  mirksome  night  did  me  enfauld, 

I kenn’d  na  whare  to  lodge  till  day  • 

By  my  guid  luck  a lass  l met, 

Just  in  the  middle  of  my  care, 

And  kindly  she  did  me  invite, 

To  walk  into  a chamber  fair. 


[ I bow’d  fu’  low  unto  this  maid, 

And  thank’d  her  for  her  courtesie  ; 

! I bow’d  fu’  low  unto  this  maid, 

And  bade  her  make  a bed  for  me  : 

She  made  the  bed  both  large  and  wide, 

Wi’  twa  white  hands  she  spread  it  down  ; 
She  put  the  cup  to  her  rosy  lips,  [sound.” 
And  drank,  ‘’Young  man,  now  sleep  ye 

She  snatch’d  the  candle  in  her  hand, 

And  frae  my  chamber  went  wi’  speed  : 

But  I call'd  her  quickly  back  again, 

To  lay  some  mair  below  my  head, 

A cod  she  laid  below  my  head, 

And  served  me  with  due  respect ; 

And  to  salute  her  with  a kiss, 

I put  my  arms  about  her  neck. 

“ Haud  aff  your  hands,  young  man,”  says  she, 
“ And  dinna  sae  uncivil  be  ; 

Gif  ye  hae  ony  love  for  me, 

0 wrang  na  my  virginity  !” 

Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o’  gowd, 

Her  teeth  were  like  the  ivory, 

Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipt  in  wine, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

Her  bosom  was  the  driven  snaw, 

Twa  drifted  heaps  sae  fair  to  see, 

Her  limbs  the  polish’d  marble  stane, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

I kiss’d  her  owre  and  owre  again, 

And  ay  she  wistna  what  to  say  ; 

I laid  her  ’tween  me  and  the  wa’ ; 

The  lassie  thought  na  lang  till  day. 

Upon  the  morrow,  when  we  raise, 

1 thank’d  her  for  her  courtesie  ; 

But  ay  she  blush’d,  and  ay  she  sigh’d, 

And  said,  “Alas!  ye’ve  ruin’d  me.” 

I clasp’d  her  waist,  and  kiss’d  her  syne, 

While  the  tear  stood  twinkling  in  her  e’e, 

I said,  my  lassie,  dinna  cry, 

For  ye  ay  shall  mak  the  bed  tome.” 

She  took  her  mither’s  Holland  sheets, 

And  made  them  a’  in  sarks  to  me  ; 

Blithe  and  merry  may  she  be, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

The  bonnie  lass  made  the  bed  to  me, 

The  braw  lass  made  the  bed  to  me  ; 

I’ll  ne'er  forget,  till  the  day  that  I die, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 


THE  KIRK’S  ALARM* 

A SATIRE. 

Orthodox,  orthodox,  wha  believe  in  John 
Knox, 

Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience  ,* 
There’s  a heretic  blast,  has  been  blawn  in  the 
wast, 

That  what  is  no  sense  must  be  nonsense. 

Dr.  Mac.t  Dr.  Mac,  you  should  stretch  on  a 
rack. 

To  strike  evil  doers  wi’  terror  ; 

To  join  faith  and  sense  upon  ony  pretence, 

Is  heretic,  damnable  error. 

* This  Poem  was  written  a short  time  after  the  pub- 
lication of  Dr.  M’Gill’s  Essay.  t Dr.  M Gill. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Town  of  Ayr,  town  of  Ayr,  it  was  mad  I de-  I 
clave, 

To  meddle  \vi’  mischief  a-brewing  ; 

Provost  John  is  still  deaf  to  the  church's  relief, 
And  orator  Bob  * is  it’s  ruin. 

DTymple  mild,  + D'rymple  mild,  tho’  your 
heart's  like  a child, 

And  your  litis  like  the  new  driven  snaw,  [ye, 
Yet  that  winna  save  ye,  auld  Satan  must  have 
For  preaching  that’s  three’s  ane  and  twa. 

Rumble  John.t  Rumble  John,  mount  the  steps 
wi  a groan. 

Cry  the  book  is  wi’  heresy  cramm’d  ; [addle, 
Then  lug  out  your  ladle,  deal  brimstone  like 
And  roar  every  note  of  the  damn’d. 

Simper  James, § Simper  James,  leave  the  fair 
Kiilie  dames, 

There’s  a holier  chase  in  your  view  ; [lead, 
I’ll  lay  on  your  head,  that  the  pack  ye’ll  soon 
For  puppies  like  you  there’s  but  few. 

Singet  Sawny.ll  Singet  Sawny,  are  ye  hording 
the  penny. 

Unconscious  what  evils  await  ? 

Wi1  a jump.,  yell,  and  howl,  alarm  every  soul, 
For  the  foul  thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 

Daddy  Ajild.1T  Daddy  Auld,  there’s  a tod  in 
the  fauld, 

A tod  meilde  waur  than  the  Clerk ; [death, 
Tho’  ye  can  do  little  skaith,  ye’ll  be  in  at  the 
And  gif  you  canna  bite,  ye  may  bark. 

Davie  Bluster,**  Davie  Bluster,  if  for  a saint  ye 
do  muster. 

The  corps  is  no  nice  of  recruits : [boast, 

Yet  to  worth  let’s  be  just,  royal  blood  ye  might 
If  the  ass  was  the  king  of  the  brutes. 

Jamie  Groose.tt  Jamie  Groose,  ye  hae  made 
but  toom  roose, 

In  hunting  the  wicked  Lieutenant ; [ark, 
But  the  Doctor's  your  mark,  for  the  L — d’s  haiy 
lie  has  cooper'd  and  caw’d  a wrang  pin  in’t. 

Poet  Willie,  U Poet  Willie,  gie  the  Doctor  a 
volley, 

Wi’  your  liberty’s  chain  and  your  wit ; 

O’er  Pegasus’s  side  ye  ne’er  lade  a stride. 

Ye  but  smelt,  man,  the  place  where  he  s — t. 

Andro  Gouk,  $$  Andro  Gouk,  ye  may  slander 
the  book, 

And  the  book  nane  the  waur  let  me  tell  ye  ! 

Ye  are  rich,  and  look  big,  but  lay  by  hat  and 
wig, 

And  ye’ll  hae  a calf  head  o’  sma’  value. 

Barr  Stceme.llll  Barr  Steenie,  what  mean  ye? 
what  mean  ye  ? 

If  ye'll  meddle  nae  mair  wi’  the  matter, 

Ye  may  hae  some  pretence  to  havins  and  sense, 
Wi’  the  people  wha  ken  ye  nae  better. 

Irvine  Slide, HIT  Irvine  Slide,  wi’  your  turkey- 
cock  pride. 

Of  manhood  but  sma’  is  your  share  ; 

* R 1 A — k — n.  t D — m-  le.  $ Mr.  R—  ss — 11. 

\ Mr.  M’K-y.  I!  Mr.  M v.  H Mr.  A — d. 

**  Mr.  G — t of  O— i— e.  -ft  Mr.  Y— g of  C— n—  k. 

Mr.  P — !» — s of  A — r.  H J>.  A.  M— 1).  ||||  Mr. 

8 n Y g of  fi r.  W Mr.  S h 

ofG  n. 


117 

Ye’ve  the  figure,  ’tis  true,  even  your  faes  will 
allow,  [mair. 

And  your  friends  they  dare  grant  you  nae 

Muirland  Jock,*  Muirland  Jock,  when  the 
L — d makes  a rock 

To  crush  common  sense  for  her  sins,  [fit 
If  ill  manners  were  wit,  there’s  no  mortal  so 
To  confound  the  poor  Doctor  at  ance. 

Holy  Will,t  Holy  Will,  there  was  wit  i’  your 
skull, 

When  ye  pilfer’d  the  alms  o’  the  poor  ; 

The  timmer  is  scant,  when  ye’re  ta’en  for  asant, 
Wha  should  swing  in  a rape  for  an  hour. 

Calvin’s  sons,  Calvin’s  sons,  your  sp’ritual  guns. 
Ammunition  you  never  can  need  ; [enough, 
Your  hearts  are  the  stuff,  will  be  powther 
And  your  skulls  are  the  storehouse  o’  lead. 

Poet  Burns,  Poet  Burns,  wi’  your  priest-skelp* 
ing  turns, 

Why  desert  ye  your  auld  native  shire  ? 

Your  muse  is  a gipsie,  e'en  tho’  she  were  tipsie. 
She  cou’d  ca’  us  nae  waur  than  we  are. 


THE  TWA  HERDS. 

O a’  ye  pious,  godly  flocks, 

Well  fed  on  pastures  orthodox, 

Wha  now  will  keep  you  frae  the  fox, 

Or  worrying  tykes? 

Or  wha  will  tent  the  waifs  and  crocks, 

About  the  dykes  ? 

The  twa  best  herds  in  a’  the  wast, 

That  e’er  gae  gospel  horn,  a blast. 

These  five  and  twenty  summers  past, 

O ! dool  to  tell, 

Hae  had  a bitter  black  out-cast, 

Atween  themsel. 

0,  M y,  man,  and  wordy  R 11, 

How  could  you  laise  so  vile  a bustle, 

Ye’ll  see  how  new-light  herds  will  whistle, 
And  think  it  fine ! 

The  Lord’s  cause  ne'er  gat  sic  a twistle, 

Sin’  I hae  min’. 

O,  Sirs!  whae’er  wad  hae  expeckit, 

Your  duly  ye  wad  sae  negleckit. 

Ye  wha  were  ne’er  by  lairds  respeckit, 

To  wear  the  plaid, 

But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit. 

To  be  their  guide. 

What  flock  wi’  M y’s  flock  could  rank, 

Sae  hale  and  hearty  every  shank, 

Nae  poison’d  soor  Arminian  stank, 

He  let  them  taste, 

Frae  Calvin’s  well,  ay  clear,  they  drank, 

O sic  a feast ! 

The  thummart,  wil’-cat,  brock  and  tod, 
Weel  kenn’d  his  voice  thro’  a’  the  wood, 

He  smell'd  their  ilka  hole  and  road, 

Baith  out  and  in, 

And  weel  he  lik’d  to  shed  their  bluid, 

And  sell  their  skin. 

What  herd  like  R il  fell’d  his  tale? 

His  voice  was  heard  thro’  muir  and  dale, 

f Au  Elder  ill  M- 


* Mr.  S- 


-d. 


118  BURNS’ 

He  kenn’d  the  Lord’s  sheep  ilka  tail, 

O’er  a’  the  height, 

And  saw  gin  they  were  sick  or  hale, 

At  the  first  sight. 

He  fine  a mangy  sheep  could  scrub, 

Or  nobly  fling  the  gospel  club, 

And  new-light  herds  could  nicely  drub, 

Or  pay  their  skin, 

Could  shake  them  o’er  the  burning  dub  ; 

Or  heave  them  in. 

Sic  twa — O ! do  I live  to  see’t- 
Sic  famous  twa  should  disagreet, 

An’  names,  like  villain,  hypocrite, 

Ilk  ither  gi’en, 

While  new-light  herds  wi’  laughin  spite, 

Say  neither's  lien’ ! 

Ar  ye  wha  tent  the  gospel  fauld, 

There’s  D n,  deep,  and  P s,  shaul, 

But  chiefly  thou,  apostle  A — d, 

We  trust  in  thee, 

That  thou  wilt  work  them,  hot  and  cauld, 

Till  they  agree. 

Consider,  Sirs,  how  we’re  beset, 

There’s  scarce  a new  herd  that  we  get, 

But  comes  frae  ’mang  that  cursed  set, 

I winna  name, 

I hope  frae  heav’n  to  see  them  yet 
In  fiery  flame. 

D e has  been  lang  our  fae, 

M’ 11  has  wrought  us  meikle  wae, 

And  that  curs’d  rascal  ca’d  M’ e, 

And  baiih  the  S s, 

That  aft  hae  made  us  black  and  blae, 

Wi’  vengefu’  paws. 

Auld  W w lang  has  hatch’d  mischief, 

We  thought  ay  death  wad  bring  relief, 

But  he  has  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Ane  to  succeed  him, 

A chiel  wha’ll  soundly  buff  our  beef ; 

I meikle  dread  him. 

And  mony  a ane  that  I could  tell, 

Wha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 

Forby  turn-coats  among  oursel, 

There  S h for  ane, 

I doubt  he’s  but  a gray  nick  quill, 

And  that  ye’ll  fin’. 

O ! a’  ye  flocks,  o’er  a’  the  hills, 

By  mosses,  meadows,  moors  and  fells, 

Come  join  your  counsel  and  your  skills, 

To  cowe  the  lairds, 

And  get  the  brutes  the  power  themselves, 

To  choose  their  herds. 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance, 

And  Learning,  in  a woody  dance, 

And  that  fell  cur  ca’d  Common  Sense, 

That  bites  sae  sair, 

Be  banish’d  o’er  the  sea  to  France  : 

Let  him  bark  there. 

Then  Shaw’s  and  D’rymple’s  eloquence, 

M’ ll’s  close,  nervous  excellence, 

M’Q, ’s  pathetic,  manly  sense, 

And  {£uid  M’ h, 

Wi’  S th,  wha  thro’  the  heart  can  glance, 

May  a’  pack  aflT. 


POEMS. 

a EPISTLE  FROM  A TAILOR 

TO 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

W hat  waefu’  news  is  this  I hear, 

Frae  greeting  I can  scarce  forbear, 

Folks  tell  me,  ye’re  gawn  aff  ihis  year, 

Out  o’er  the  sea, 

And  lasses  wham  ye  lo’e  sae  dear 

Will  greet  for  thee. 

Weel  wad  I like,  war  ye  to  stay, 

But,  Robin,  since  ye  will  away, 

I hae  a word  yet  mair  to  say, 

And  maybe  twa ; 

May  he  protect  us  night  an’  day, 

That  made  us  a’. 

Whaur  thou  art  gaun,  keep  mind  frae  me, 
Seek  him  to  bear  thee  companie. 

And,  Robin,  whan  yc  come  to  die, 

Ye’ll  won  aboon, 

An’  live  at  peace  an’  unity 

Ayont  the  moon. 

Some  tell  me,  Rab,  ye  dinna  fear 
To  get  a wean,  an’  curse  an’  swear, 

I’m  unco  wae,  my  lad,  to  hear 

O’  sic  a trade, 

Cou’d  I persuade  ye  to  forbear, 

I wad  be  glad. 

Fu’  weel  ye  ken  ye’ll  gang  to  hell, 

Gin  ye  persist  in  doing  ill— 

Waes  me:  ye’re  huriin  down  the  hill 
Withouten  dread, 

An’  ye’ll  get  leave  to  swear  your  fill 
After  ye’re  dead. 

There  walth  o’  women  ye’ll  get  near, 

But  gettin  weans  ye  will  forbear, 

Ye’ll  never  say,  my  bonnie  dear, 

Come,  gie’s  a kiss — 
Nae  kissing  there — ye’ll  grin  an’  sneer, 

An’  ither  hiss. 

O Rab ! lay  by  thy  foolish  tricks, 

An’  steer  nae  mair  the  female  sex. 

Or  some  day  ye’ll  come  through  the  pricks, 
An’  that  ye’il  see  ; 

Ye’ll  find  hard  living  wi5  Auld  Nicks; 

I’m  wae  for  thee. 

But  what’s  this  comes  wi’  sic  a knell, 
Amaist  as  loud  as  ony  bell? 

While  it  does  mak  my  conscience  tell 
Me  what  is  true, 

I’m  but  a ragget  cowt  mysel, 

Owre  sib  to  you ! 

We’re  owre  like  those  wha  think  it  fit, 

To  stuff  their  noddles  fu’  o’  wit, 

An’  yet  content  in  darkness  sit, 

Wha  shun  the  light, 

To  let  them  see  down  to  the  pit. 

That  lang,  dark  night. 

But  farewell,  Rab,  I maun  a%va’, 

May  he  that  made  us,  keep  us  a’, 

For  that  would  be  a dreadfu’  fa’, 

And  hurt  us  sair, 

Lad,  ye  wad  never  mend  ava, 

1 Sae,  Rab,  tak  care. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


119 


THE  ANSWER. 

Wiiat  ails  ye  now,  ye  lousy  b — h, 

To  thresh  my  back,  at  sic  a pilch  ? 

Losh,  man  ! hae  mercy  wi1  your  natch, 

Your  bodkin’s  bauld, 

I did  na  suffer  haff  sae  much, 

Fra  Daddie  Auld. 

What  tho’  at  times  when  I grow  crouse, 

I gie  their  wames  a random  pouse, 

Is  that  enough  for  you  to  souse, 

Your  servant  sae  ? 

Gae  mind  your  seam,  ye  prick  the  louse, 

An’  jag  the  flae. 

King  David  o’  poetic  brief, 

W rought  ’mang  the  lasses  sic  mischief 
As  fill'd  his  after  life  wi’  grief 

An’  bloody  rants, 

An’  yet  he’s  rank’d  amang  the  chief 
O’  lang  syne  saunts. 

And  maybe,  Tam,  for  a'  my  cants, 

My  wicked  rhymes,  an1  drucken  rants, 

I’ll  gie  auld  cloven  Clouty’s  haunts, 

An  unco  slip  yet, 

An’  snugly  sit  amang  the  saunts 

At  Davie’s,  hip  yet. 

But  fegs,  the  Session  says  I maun 
Gae  fa’  upo’  anither  plan, 

Than  garran  lassies  cowp  the  cran 

Clean  heels  owre  body, 

And  sairly  thole  their  mither’s  ban, 

Afore  the  howdy. 

This  leads  me  on,  to  tell  for  sport, 

How  much  I did  with  the  Session  sort — 

Auld  Clinkum  at  the  Inner  port 

Cry’d  three  times,  “ Robin  ! 
Come  hither  lad*  an  answer  for’t, 

Ye’re  blam’d  for  jobbin.” 

Wi’  pinch  I put  a Sunday’s  face  on, 

An’  snoov’d  awa’  before  the  Session — * 

I made  an  open,  fair  comfession, 

I scorn’d  to  lie  : 

An’  syne  Mess  John,  beyond  expression, 

Fell  foul  o’  me. 

A fornicator  lown  he  call’d  me. 

An’  said  my  fau’t  frae  bliss  expeli’d  me  ; 

I own’d  the  tale  was  true  he  tell’d  me, 

“But  what  the  matter?” 
Quo’  I,  “ I fear,  unless  ye  geld  me, 

I’ll  ne’er  be  better.” 

“ Geld  you,”  quo’  he,  “ and  what  for  no! 

If  that  your  right  hand,  leg  or  toe, 

Should  ever  prove  your  sp’ritual  foe, 

You  shou’d  remember 
To  cut  it  aff,  an’  what  for  no 

Your  dearest  member?” 

“ Na,  na,”  quo’  I,  “ I’m  not  for  that, 
Gelding’s  nae  better  than  ’tis  ca’t, 

I’d  rather  suffer  for  my  fau’t, 

A hearty  flewit, 

As  sair  owre  hip  as  ye  can  draw’t ! 

Tho’  I should  rue  it 

Qr  gin  yc  like  to  end  the  bother, 

To  please  us  a’,  I’ve  just  ae  ither, 

When  next  wi’  yon  lass  I forgather. 

Whale ’er  betide  it. 

I’ll  frankly  gie  her’t  a’  thegither. 

An’  let  her  guide  it.” 


But,  Sir,  this  pleas’d  them  warst  ava, 
An’  therefore,  Tam,  when  that  I saw, 

I said,  “ Guid  night,”  and  cam  awa’, 

And  left  the  Session  ; 
I saw  they  were  resolved  a’ 

On  my  oppression. 


LETTER  TO  JOHN  GOUDIE, 
KILMARNOCK, 

ON  THE  PUBLICATION  OF  HIS  ESSAYS. 

O Goudte  ! terror  o’  the  Whigs, 

Dread  o’  black  coats  and  rev’rend  wigs, 
Soor  Bigotry,  on  her  last  legs, 

Girnin  looks  back, 
Wishin  the  ten  Egyptian  plagues 

W ad  seize  you  quick. 

Poor  gapin,  glowrin  Superstition, 

Waes  me  ! she’s  in  a sad  condition ; 

Fly,  bring  Black  Jock,  her  state  physician, 
To  see  her  w — ter  ; 

Alas  ! there’s  ground  o’  great  suspicion 
She’ll  ne’er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  lang  did  grapple, 

But  now  she’s  got  an  unco  ripple, 

Haste,  gie  her  name  up  i’  the  chapel, 

Nigh  unto  death  ; 

See  how  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple 

An’  gasps  for  breath. 

Enthusiasm’s  past  redemption, 

Gaen  in  a galloping  consumption, 

Not  a’  the  quacks  wi’  a’  their  gumption, 
Will  ever  mend  her. 

Her  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presumption, 
Death  will  soon  end  her. 

’Tis  you  and  Taylor*  are  the  chief, 

Wha  are  to  blame  for  this  mischief: 

But  gin  the  L — d*s  ain  folks  gat  leave, 

A toom  tar  barrel 
And  twa  red  peats  wad  send  relief, 

An’  end  the  quarrel. 


LETTER  TO  J S T T GL-NC-H. 

Auld  comrade  dear,  and  brither  sinner, 
How’s  a’  the  folk  about  G1 — nc — r ; 

How  do  you  this  blae  eastlin  wind, 

That’s  like  to  blaw  a body  blind  : 

For  me,  my  faculties  arc  frozen, 

My  dearest  member  nearly  dozen’d  : 

I’ve  sent  you  here  by  Johnie  Simpson, 

Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on  ; 

Smith,  wi’  his  sympathetic  feeling, 

An’  Reid,  to  common  sense  appealing, 
Philosophers  have  fought  an’  wrangled, 

An’  meikle  Greek  an’  Latin  mangled, 

Till  wi’  their  logic  jargon  tir'd, 

An’  in  the  depth  of  science  mir’d, 

To  common  sense  they  now  appeal, 

What  wives  an’  wahsters  see  an’  feel  ; 

But  hark  ye,  friend,  I charge  you  strictly. 
Peruse  them  an’  return  them  quickly  ; 

For  now  I’m  grown  sae  cursed  douse, 

I pray  an’  ponder  bull  the  house, 

*Dr.  Taylor  of  Norwich. 


120 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


My  shins,  my  lane,  I there  set  roastin, 
Perusing  Bunyan,  Brown,  arid  Boston  ; 
Till  by  an1  by,  if  I haud  on, 

I’ll  grunt  a real  Gospel  groan: 

Already  I begin  to  try  it, 

To  cast  my  een  up  like  a pyet, 

When  by  the  gun  she  tumbles  o’er, 
Flutt’ring  an’  gasping  in  her  gore  ; 

Sae  shortly  you  shall  see  me  bright, 

A burning  an’  a shining  light. 

My  heart-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 
The  ace  an’  wale  of  honest  men  ; 

When  bending  down  with  auld  gray  hairs, 
Beneath  the  load  of  years  and  cares, 

May  he  who  made  him;  still  support  him, 
An’  views  beyond  the  grave  comfort  him  ; 
His  worthy  fam’ly  far  and  near, 

God  bless  them  a’  wi’  grace  and  gear. 


— - 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 

SIR  JAMES  HUNTER  BLAIR. 

The  lamp  of  day  with  ill-presaging  glare. 

Dim,  cloudy,  sunk  beneath  the  western  wave ; 
Th’  inconstant  blast  howl’d  thro’  the  darkening 
air, 

And  hollow  whistled  in  the  rocky  cave. 

Lone  as  I wander’d  by  each  cliff  and  dell, 

Once  the  lov’d  haunts  of  Scotia’s  royal  train  ;* 
Or  mus’d  where  limpid  streams,  once  hallow’d, 
well.t 

Or  moldering  ruins  mark  the  sacred  fane.t 

Th’  increasing  blast  roar’d  round  the  beetling 
rocks,  [sky; 

The  clouds,  swift-wing’d,  flew  o’er  the  starry 

♦The  King’s  Park,  at  Holyrood-house 
t St.  Anthony’s  Well.  }St.  Anthony’s  Chapel. 


The  groaning  trees  untimely  shed  their  locks, 
And  shooting  meteors  caught  the  startling 
eye. 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  livid  east, 

And  ’mong  the  cliffs  disclos’d  a stately  form, 

In  weeds  of  wo,  that  frantic  beat  her  breast. 
And  mix’d  her  wailings  with  the  raving  storm. 

Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow, 

’Twas  Caledonia's  trophied  shield  I view’d: 

Her  form  majestic  droop’d  in  pensive  wo, 

The  lightning  of  her  eye  in  tears  imbued. 

Revers’d  that  spear,  redoubtable  in  war ; U 
Reclin’d  that  banner,  erst  in  fields  unfurl’d, 

That  like  a deathful  meteor  gleam'd  afar, 

And  brav’d  the  mighty  monarchs  of  the 
world. — 

“ My  patriot  son  fills  an  untimely  grave  !” 
With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms  she  cried  ; 

“Low  lies  the  hand  that  oft  was  stretch’d  to 
save.  [pride! 

Low  lies  the  heart  that  swell ’d  with  honest 

“A  weeping  country  joins  a widow’s  tears, 
The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  orphan’s  cry; 

The  drooping  arts  surround  their  patron's  bier, 
And  grateful  science  heaves  the  heartfelt 
sigh.— 

“ I saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire ; 

I saw  fair  Freedom’s  blossoms  richly  blow; 

But  ah  ! how  hope  is  born  but  to  expire  ! 
Relentless  fate  has  laid  this  guardian  low.— 

“ My  patriot  falls,  but  shall  he  lie  unsung, 
While  empty  greatness  saves  a worthless 
name  ? 

No  ; every  muse  shall  join  her  tuneful  tongue, 
And  future  ages  hear  his  gtowing  fame. 

“ And  I will  join  a mother’s  tender  cares, 
Thro’  future  times  to  make  his  virtues  last. 

That  distant  years  may  boast  of  other  Blairs’* — 
She  said,  and  vanish’d  with  the  sweeping  blast. 


TIIE  JOLLY  BEGGARS 

A CANTATA. 


RECITATIVO. 

\Viien  lyart  leaves  bestrew  the  yird, 
Or,  wavering  like  the  bauckie*  bird, 
Bedim  cauld  Boreas’  blast : 

When  hailstones  drive  vvi’  bitter  skyte, 
And  infant  frost  begin  to  bite, 

In  hoary  cranreugh  drest ; 

Ae  night  at  e’en,  a merry  core 
O’  randie-gangrel  bodies, 

In  Poosie-Nausie’s  held  the  splore, 

To  drink  their  ora  daddies: 

Wi’  quailing  and  laughing, 

They  ramed  and  they  sang ; 

Wi’ jumping  and  thumping 
The  vera  girdle  rang. 

First,  niest  the  lire,  in  auld  red  rags, 
Ane  sat,  weel  brac’d  wi’  mealy  bags, 
And  knapsack  a’  in  order  ; 

His  doxy  lay  within  his  arm, 

Wi’  usquebae  and  blankets  warm, 

She  blinker,  on  her  sodger  ; 

And  aye  he  gies  the  tousie  drab 
The  tither  skelpin  kiss.,. 

While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab, 

Just  like  an  a’mous  dish  ; 

Ilk  smack  still,  did  crack  still, 

Just  like  a cadger’s  whup, 

Then  staggering,  and  swaggering, 
He  roar’d  this  ditty  up — ° 


And  now,  tho’  I must  beg,  with  a wooden  arm 
and  leg. 

And  many  a tatter’d  rag  hanging  over  my  bum, 
1 m as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle,  and 
my  callet, 

As  when  I us’d  in  scarlet  to  follow  the  drum. 

Lal  de  daudle,  fic. 

What  tho’  with  hoary  locks,  I must  stand  the 
windy  shocks  [a  home  ; 

Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks.,  oftentimes  for 
When  the  tother  bag  I sell,  and  the  tother  bot- 

t u 1 e te^'  [drum. 

1 could  meet  a troop  ofh-11,  at  the  sound  of  the 

Lai  de  daudle , fic. 
RECJTATIVO. 

He  ended  ; and  the  kebars  sheuk 
A boon  the  chorus  roar ; 

W hile  frighted  rattans  backward  leuk. 

And  seek  the  benmost  bore  : 

A fairy  fiddler  frae  the  neuk, 
lie  skirl’d  out  encore  ! 

But  up  arose  the  martial’s  chuck, 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune — “ Soldier  Laddie.* 


Tune — Soldier’s  Joy.” 

I am  a son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  mat 
wars, 

And  show  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I conn 
i his  here  was  for  a wench,  and  that  other  in 
trench. 

When  welcoming  the  French  at  the  sound  < 
the  drum.  Lai  de  daudle , fic 

My  prenticeship  I past  where  my  leader  breath 
m,  htslasf,  [of  A bra  rr 

When  the  bloody  dte  was  cast  on  the  heich 
I serv  d out  my  trade  where  the  gallant  gan 
was  play’d,  6 

And  the  Moro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound  of  tl 
°ruin*  Lai  de  daudle , fic 

I lastly  was  with  Curtis,  among  the  floalin 
baft  rtcs. 

And  there  I left  for  witness  an  arm  and  a Jiml 
Yet  let  my  country  need  me,  with  Elliot  i 
head  me. 

I’d  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  th 
arurn-  Lid  de  daudle , fie. 

♦The  old  Scottish  name  for  the  Bat 


I once  was  a maid,  tho’  I cannot  tell  when, 
And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men ; 
feome  one  of  a troop  of  dragoons  was  my  daddie 
JNo  wonder  I’m  fond  of  a sodger  laddie.  * 
Sing  lal  de  lal,  fic. 

The  first  of  my  lovers  was  a swaggering  blade 
i 9 rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  Trade : ’ 
ms  leg  was  so  tight,  ar:d  Ids  cheek  was  so  ruddy, 
l ransported  I was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing  lal  de  lal,  fic . 

But  the  goodly  old  chaplain  left  hirn  in  the  lurch 
bo  the  sword  1 forsook  for  the  sake  of  the 
church  ; 

He  ventur’d  The  soul.  I risked  the  body, 
i was  then  I prov’d  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing  lal  de  lal , fic. 

Full  soon  I grew  sick  of  the  sanctified  sot, 

1 ho  regiment  at  large  for  a husband  I got ; 
t ro!n  j e sponfoon  to  the  fife  I was  ready, 

1 asked  no  more  but  a sodger  laddie. 

Sing  lal  de  lal,  fic. 

mm  i^C  Pcace  reduc’d  me  to  beg  in  despair, 

I ill  I met  my  old  boy  at  a Cunningham  fair, 

121 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


122 

His  rags  regimental  they  flutter’d  sae  gaudy, 
My  heart  it  rejoic’d  at  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing  lal  de  lal,  4*c. 

And  now  T have  liv’d — I know  not  how  long. 
And  still  I can  join  in  a cup  or  a song  ; 

But  whilst  with  both  hands  i can  hold  the  glass 
steady, 

Here’s  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing  lal  de  lal , tyc. 

KEC1TATIVO. 

Poor  Merry  Andrew,  in  the  neuk, 

Sat  guzzling  wi’  a tinkler  hizzie  ; 

They  mind’t  na  what  the  chorus  took, 
Between  themselves  they  were  sae  bizzy  ; 
At  length,  wi’  drink  an’  courting  dizzy, 

He  stoiter’d  up  and  made  a face  ; 

Then  turn’d  and  laid  a smack  on  Crizzy, 
Syne  tun’d  his  pipes  wi’  grave  grimace. 

AIR. 

Tune — “ Auld  Sir  Symon.” 

Sir  Wisdom’s  a fool  when  he’s  fou, 

Sir  Knave  is  a fool  in  a session  ; 

He’s  there  but  a ’prentice  I trow, 

But  I am  a fool  by  profession. 

My  grannie  she  bought  me  a beuk, 

And  I held  awa  to  the  school ; 

I fear  1 my  talent  misteuk  ; 

But  what  will  ye  hae  of  a fool  ? 

For  drink  I would  venture  my  neck ; 

A hizzie’s  the  half  o’  my  craft; 

But  what  could  ye  other  expect 
Of  ane  that’s  avowedly  daft. 

I ance  was  ty’d  up  like  a stirk, . 

For  civilly  swearing  and  quaffing; 

I ance  was  abus’d  i’  the  kirk, 

For  towzling  a lass  i’  my  daffin. 

Poor  Andrew  that  tumbles  for  sport, 

Let  naehody  name  wi’  a jeer  ; 

There’s  ev’n,  I'm  tauld,  i’  the  court, 

A tumbler  ca’d  the  Premier. 

Observ’d  ye,  yon  reverend  lad 
Maks  faces  to  tickle  the  mob  ; 

He  rails  at  our  mountebank  squad, 

It ’s  rivaiship  just  i’  the  job. 

• 

And  now  my  conclusion  I’ll  tell. 

For  faith  I’m  confoundedly  dry, 

The  chiel  that’s  a fool  for  himsei’, 

Gude  L — d,  is  fur  dafler  than  I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then  niest  out  spak  a raucle  carlin, 

Wha  kent  fu’  weel  to  deck  the  sterlin, 

For  monie  a pursie  she  had  hooked. 

And  had  in  monie  a well  been  ducket ; 

Her  dove  had  been  a Highland  laddie, 

But  weary  fa’  the  waefu’  woodie ! 

Wi’  sighs  and  sabs,  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  braw  John  Highiandman. 

air. 

Tune — O an’  ye  were  dead,  guidman.” 

A iiTGHEATCn  lnd  my  love  was  born, 

The  Lawlan1  laws  he  held  in  scorn  ; 


But  he  still  was  faithfu’  to  his  clan, 

My  gallant,  braw  John  Highiandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing  hey , my  braw  John  Ilighlandman; 
Sing  ho,  my  braw  John  Highiandman ; 
There's  not  a lad  in  all  the  Ian ’ 

Was  match  for  my  John  Highiandman. 

With  his  philibeg  and  tartan  plaid. 

And  guid  claymore  down  by  his  side, 

The  ladies’  hearts  ho  did  trepan, 

My  gallant,  braw  John  Highiandman. 

Sing  hey,  §-c. 

We  ranged  a’  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 

And  liv’d  like  lords  and  ladies  gay  ; 

For  a Lallan  face  he  feared  nane, 

My  gallant,  braw  John  Highiandman. 

Sing  hey,  $c. 

They  banish’d  him  beyond  the  sea, 

But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 

Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran. 
Embracing  my  John  Highiandman. 

Smg  key,  <§-c. 

But  oh  ! they  catch’d  him  at  the  last, 

And  bound  him  in  a dungeon  fast ; 

My  curse  upon  them  every  one, 

They’ve  hang’d  my  braw  John  Highiandman. 

Sing  hey,  <fc. 

And  now  a widow,  I must  mourn 
The  pleasure  that  will  ne’er  return  ; 

No  comfort  but  a hearty  can, 

When  I think  on  John  Highiandman. 

Sing  hey,  $-c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy  Scraper,  wi’  his  fiddle, 

Wha  us’d  at  trysts  and  fairs  to  driddle, 

Her  strappin  limb  and  gaucy  middle 

(He  reach’d  nae  higher,) 
Had  hol’t  his  heartie  like  a riddle, 

And  blawn’t  on  fire. 

Wi’  hand  on  haunch,  and  upward  e’e, 

He  croon’d  his  gamut  ane,  twa,  three, 

Then,  in  an  Arioso  key, 

The  wee  Apollo 
Set  aff,  wi’  Allegretto  glee. 

His  giga  solo. 

ATR. 

Tune—11  Whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’l.” 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  dight  that  tear, 

And  go  wi’  me  and  be  my  dear. 

And  then  your  every  care  and  fear 
May  whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

CHORUS. 

1 am  a fiddler  to  m.y  trade. 

And  a'  the  tunes  that  e'er  1 play'd, 

The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid, 

IV as  whistle  o'er  the  lave  o'l. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we’se  he  there, 

And  oh  ! sae  nicely’s  we  will  fare  ; 

We’ll  bouse  about,  til!  Daddie  Caro 
Sings  whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

1 am,  $c. 

Sae  merrily’s  the  banes  we’ll  pyke, 

And  sun  oursels  about  the  dyke, 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


123 


And  at  our  leisure,  when  we  like, 

We’ll  whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

1 am,  <£c. 

But  bless  me  wi’  your  hcav’n  o’  charms, 
And  while  I kittle  hair  on  lhairms, 
Hunger,  cauld,  and  a’  sic  harms, 

May  whistle  o’er  the  lave  o’t. 

I am,  (J-c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her  charms  had  struck  a sturdy  Caird 
As  weel  as  poor  Gut-scraper; 

He  taks  the  fiddler  by  the  beard, 

And  draw's  a roosty  rapier — 

He  swoor,  by  a’  was  swearing  worth, 

To  spit  him  like  a pliver, 

Unless  he  wad  from  that  time  forth 
Relinquish  her  forever, 

Wi’  ghastly  e’e,  poor  tvveedle-dee 
Upon  his  hunkers  bended, 

And  pray’d  for  grace,  wi’  ruefu’  face, 
And  sae  the  quarrel  ended. 

But  tho’  his  little  heart  did  grieve 
When  round  the  tinkler  prest  her, 

He  feign'd  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve, 

When  thus  the  Caird  address’d  her : 


AIR. 

Tcne— 1 “ Clout  the  Cauldron.” 

My  bonnie  lass,  I work  in  brass, 

A tinkler  is  my  station  ; 

I’ve  travel’d  round  all  Christian  ground, 

In  this  my  occupation  ; 

I’ve  ta’en  the  gold,  I've  been  enroll'd 
In  many  a noble  squadron  ; 

But  vain  they  search’d,  when  off  I march’d 
To  go  and  clout  the  cauldron. 

I've  taen  the  gold,  ($*c. 

Despise  that  shrimp,  that  wither’d  imp, 

Wi’  a’  his  noise  and  caprin, 

And  tak  a share  wi’  those  that  bear 
The  budget  and  the  apron  ; 

And  by  that  stowp,  my  faith  and  houp, 

And  by  that  dear  Kilbadgie,* 

If  e’er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi’  scant, 

May  I ne’er  want  iny  craigie. 

And  by  that  stoup , <$•£. 

RECITATIVO. 

The  Caird  prevail’d — th’  unblushing  fair 
In  his  embraces  sunk, 

Partly  wi’  love  o’ercome  sae  fair, 

And  partly  she  was  drunk. 

Sir  Violina,  with  an  air 

That  show’d  a man  o’  spunk, 

Wish’d  unison  between  the  pair, 

And  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night. 

But  hurchin  Cupid  shot  a shaft. 

That  play'd  the  dame  a shavie, 

The  fiddler  rak’d  her  fore  and  aft, 

Behint  the  chicken  eavic. 

Her  lord,  a wight  o’  Homer’s  craft, 

Tho’  limping  wi’  the  spavie, 

• A peculiar  sort  of  whisky,  so  called;  a groat  fa- 
vorite wtih  PosieNansie’s  clubs. 


He  hirpl’d  up,  and  lap  like  daft, 

And  shor’d  them  Dainty  Davie 
O boot  that  night. 

He  was  a care -defying  blade 
As  ever  Bacchus  listed, 

Tho’  Fortune  sair  upon  him  laid, 

His  heart  she  ever  miss’d  it. 
lie  had  nae  wish,  but — to  be  glad. 

Nor  want — but  when  he  thirsted  ; 

He  hated  nought  but — to  be  sad, 

And  thus  the  Muse  suggested 

Iiis  sang  that  night. 

AIR. 

Tune— “ For  a’  that,  and  a’  that.” 

I am  a bard  of  no  regard, 

Wi’  gentlefolks,  and  a’  that: 

But  Homer-like,  the  glowran  byke, 

Frae  town  to  town!  draw  that. 

CHORUS. 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

And  twice  as  meikle's  a’  that; 

I've  lost  but  ane,  I've  twa'  behin', 

I've  wife  enough,  for  a'  that. 

I never  drank  the  Muses’  stank, 

Castalia’s  burn,  and  a’  that ; 

But  there  it  streams,  and  richly  reams, 

My  Helicon  I ea’  that. 

For  a.'  that,  $c. 

Great  love  I bear  to  a’  the  fair. 

Their  humble  slave,  and  a’  that ; 

But  lordly  will,  I hold  it  still 
A mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

For  a'  that,  $c. 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  hour  we  meet, 

Wi’  mutual  love,  and  a’  that; 

But  for  how  lang  the  fiie  may  stang, 

Let  inclination  law  that. 

For  a ’ that, 

Their  tricks  and  craft,  hae  put  me  daft, 
They’ve  ta’en  me  in,  and  a’  that ; 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  “ Here’s  the  sex  !" 
I like  the  jade  for  a’  that. 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

And  twice  as  meikle's  a'  that, 

My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid , 
They're  welcome  till' t,  for  a'  lhatT 

RECITATIVO. 

So  sung  the  bard — and  Nansie’s  wa’s 
Shook  with  a thunder  of  applause, 

Re-echo’d  from  each  mouth  ; 

They  toom’d  their  pocks,  and  pawn’d  their  duds, 
They  scarcely  left  to  co’er  their  fuds, 

To  quench  their  Iowan  drouth. 

Then  owre  again  the  jovial  thrang, 

The  poet  did  request, 

To  lowse  his  pack,  and  wale  a sang, 

A ballad  o’  the  best ; 

He,  rising,  rojoicing. 

Between  his  twa  Deborahs, 

Looks  round  him,  and  found  them 

Impatient  for  the  chorus. 


124 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


AIR. 

Tune— “ Jolly  mortals,  fill  your  glasses.” 

See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 

Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring  ; 

Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 
And  in  raptures  let  us  sing  : 

CHORUS. 

A fis  f°r  those  by  law  protected  : 
Liberty's  a glorious  feast  ! 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected , 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

What  is  title  ? what  is  treasure  ? 

What  is  reputation’s  care  ? 

If  we  lead  a life  of  pleasure, 

’Tis  no  matter,  how  or  where  ! 

A fig,  Src. 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable, 

Round  we  wander  all  the  day  ; 

And  at  night,  in  barn  or  stable, 

Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 

^ fig, 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 
Thro1  the  country  lighter  rove  ? 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 
Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love  ? 

A fig,  4-c. 


Life  is  all  a variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes ; 

Let  them  cant  about  decorum 
Who  have  characters  to  lose. 

A fig,  £c. 

Here’s  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets  ! 

Here’s  to  all  the  wandering  train  ! 
Here’s  our  ragged  brats  and  callets  ! 
One  and  all  cry  out,  Amen  ! 

Afig,  4-c. 


EXTEMPORE. 

April,  1782. 

0 wny  the  deuce  should  I repine, 

And  be  an  ill  foreboder  ? 

I’m  twenty-three,  and  five  feet  nine— 

I’ll  go  and  be  a sodger. 

1 gat  some  gear  wi’  meiklo  care, 

I held  it  weel  thegither  ; 

But  now  it’s  gane,  and  something  raair, — 
I’ll  go  and  be  a sodger. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

EXTRACTED  FROM 

THE  LATE  EDITION  OF  BURNS’  WORKS, 

EDITED  BY 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  careless  manner  in  which  Burns  distributed  many  of  his  effusions 
among  his  friends,  with  scarcely  any  regard  to  their  preservation,  has  hith- 
erto rendered  a complete  edition  of  his  works  a desideratum  very  difficult  of 
attainment.  Short  poems,  of  great  merit,  have  been,  from  time  to  time, 
rescued  from  obscurity,  and  inserted  in  the  successive  editions  of  his  works ; 
but  a considerable  number  were,  from  a variety  of  considerations,  still  sup- 
pressed, until  the  recent  publication  of  Cunningham’s  edition  has  brought 
them  to  light.  With  respect  to  some  of  the  fugitive  pieces,  the  reasons 
for  their  suppression  are  sufficienly  obvious,  even  if  they  had  not  been 
fairly  and  very  properly  avowed  by  the  poet  himself.  They  are  such  as 
could  neither  do  honor  to  him,  nor  service  to  the  public  at  large  ; and  al- 
though their  original  effusion  may  be  excusable,  in  consideration  of  the 
political  or  personal  feelings  which  prompted  them,  yet  their  preservation 
is  no  less  unjust  to  the  reputation  of  the  bard,  than  detrimental  to  the 
cause  of  good  taste  and  pure  morality. 

These  observations  are  applicable  to  a part  only  of  the  additions  to 
Burns’  Works,  which  have  been  made  in  Cunningham’s  edition.  All 
those  pieces  to  which  they  do  not,  with  greater  or  less  force,  apply,  have 
been  introduced  into  the  new  edition  which  we  now  offer  to  the  public, 
and  which  we  believe  to  be  entitled,  in  every  proper  and  worthy  sense, 
to  be  considered  the  Complete  Works  of  Burns;  inasmuch  as  we  are 
fully  convinced  that  a revision  of  his  wrorks  by  the  author  himself,  would 
have  left  nothing  in  them  which  we  have  not  retained. 


additional  poems 


HOLY  WILLIE’S  PRAYER. 

0 Thou,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 
VVha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel’, 

bends  ane  to  heaven,  and  ten  to  hell, 

A A’  for  thy  glory, 

And  no  for  ony  gude  or  ill 

They’ve  done  afore  thee  ! 

1 bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might 
Whan  thousands  thou  hast  left  in  night, 

I hat  I am  here  afore  thy  sight, 

A , . , . For  gifts  and  grace, 

A burnin’  and  a shinin’  light 

To  a’  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation, 

1 hat  I should  get  sic  exaltation, 
l wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation, 

, For  broken  laws, 
hive  thousand  years  ’fore  my  creation, 

1 hro’  Adam’s  cause. 
When  frae  my  mither’s  womb  I fell, 

I hou  might  hae  plunged  me  in  hell, 

1 o gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail, 

•w/u  j , , In  burnin’  lake, 

Whar  damned  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Chain’d  to  a stake. 


. j , , , Str°ng  as  a rock, 

A guide,  a buckler,  an  example, 

To  a’  thy  flock. 

But  yel,  0 L-d  ! confess  I must, 

At  times  I’m  fash’d  wi’  fleshly  lust  • 

And  sometimes,  too,  wi’  warldly  trust, 
p . self  gets  m : 

out  thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Defil’d  in  sin. 

Besides,  I farther  maun  allow, 

l Lizzie’s  lass,  three  times  I trow — 

But  L— d,  that  Friday  I was  fou, 

_ When  I came  near  her 

Or  else,  thou  kens,  thy  servant  true  ’ 

Wad  ne’er  hae  steer’d  her. 
Maybe  thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn 
Beset  thy  servant  e’en  and  morn, 

Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should  turn, 
Tfoon  ,,  , , ’Cause  he’s  sae  gifted: 

If  sae,  thy  han  maun  e’en  be  borne, 

Until  thou  lift  it. 

D— d bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place, 
p °r  here  thou  hast  a chosen  race  : 

But  G— d confound  their  stubborn  face, 

And  blast  their  name. 


Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace 

And  public  shame. 

L— d,  mind  Gawn  Hamilton’s  deserts. 

He  drinks,  and  swears,  and  plays  at  carts, 
X et  has  sae  mony  takin’  arts, 
p n j,  • Wi’  Srit  and  sma\ 
frae  G— d s am  priests  the  people’s  hearts 
He  steals  awa. 

An’  whan  we  chasten’d  him  therefor, 

I hou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a splore. 

As  set  the  warld  in  a roar 

O’  laughin’  at  us 

Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  and  potatoes. 

L— d,  hear  my  earnest  cry  and  pray’r. 
Against  the  presbyt’ry  of  Ayr ; 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  L— d,  mak  it  bare 
T , . , . , Fpo’  their  heads, 

d,  weigh  it  down,  and  dinna  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds. 

0 L— d my  G— d.  that  glib-tongu’d  Aiken, 
m ^ Y®IT  ^eart  anc^  saul  are  quakin’, 

1 o think  how  we  stood  groanin,  shaking 

*Tr,. , , . And  swat  wi’ dread, 

While  he  wi’  hingm  lips  and  snakin’, 

Held  up  his  head. 

L— d,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him, 

L— d,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him, 

And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  ’em, 
p r Nor  hear  their  pray’r : 

But  for  thy  people’s  sake  destroy  Vem, 

And  dinna  spare, 
remember  me  and  mine, 

Wi  mercies  temp’ral  and  divine, 

1 hat  1 lor  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 

* j , .1  , Excell’d  by  nane, 

And  a’  the  glory  shall  be  thine, 

Amen,  Amen ! 


the  farewell. 

nJiV?\anKn  himse)f.  wJiat  can  he  suffer? 
Or  what  does  he  regard  his  single  woes  ? 

And  weak?vm'Sery  f St’ri,,e  in  his  heart, 

,ike « 

Thomson's  Edward  and  Ekanora, . 

I. 

Farewell  old  Scotia’s  bleak  domains, 

* 7*rTearer.than  the  torrid  plains 
Where  rich  ananas  blow! 

927 


128 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Farewell,  a mother's  blessing  dear  ! 

A brother’s  sigh  1 a sister’s  tear! 

My  Jean’s  heart-rending  throe  ! 
Farewell,  my  Bess  ! tho’  thou’rt  bereft 
Of  my  parental  care  ; 

A faithful  brother  I have  left, 

My  part  in  him  thou’ it  share  ! 

Adieu  too,  to  you  too, 

My  Smith,  my  bosom  fricn1 ; 
When  kindly  you  mind  me, 

O then  befriend  my  Jean  ! 

II.* 

What  bursting  anguish  tears  my  heart . 
From  thee,  my  Jeany,  must  I part ! 

Thou  weeping  answ’rest  no  ! 

Alas!  misfortune  stares  my  face, 

And  points  to  ruin  and  disgrace; 

I for  thy  sake  must  go  ! 

Thee,  Hamilton,  and  Aiken  dear, 

A grateful,  warm  adieu  ! 

I,  with  a much  indebted  tear, 

Shall  still  remember  you  ! 

All-hail  then,  the  gale  then, 

Wafts  me  from  thee,  dear  shore! 
It  rustles,  and  whistles, 

I’ll  ne’er  see  thee  more  ! 


WILLIE  CHALMERS. 

I. 

Wi’  braw  new  branks  in  mickle  pride, 
And  eke  a braw  new  brechan, 

My  Pegasus  I’m  got  astride. 

And  up  Parnassus  pechin  ; 

Whiles  owre  a bush  wi’  downward  crush, 
The  doited  beastie  stammers  ; 

Then  up  he  gets,  and  off  he  sets, 

For  sake  o’  Willie  Chalmers. 

II. 

I doubt  na,  lass,  that  weel  kenn’d  name 
May  cost  a pair  o’  blushes ; 

I am  nae  stranger  to  your  fame, 

Nor  his  warm  urged  wishes. 

Your  bonnie  face  sae  mild  and  sweet, 

His  honest  heart  enamors, 

And  faith,  ye’ll  no  be  lost  a whit, 

Tho’  waired  on  Willie  Chalmers. 

III. 

Auld  Truth  hersel’  might  swear  ye're  fair, 
And  honor  safely  back  her. 

And  modesty  assume  your  air, 

And  ne’er  a ane  mistak’  her  : 

And  sic  twa  love-inspiring  een 
Might  fire  even  holy  Palmers  ; 

Nae  wonder  then  they’ve  fatal  been 
To  honest  Willie  Chalmers. 

IV. 

I doubt,  na  fortune  may  you  shore 
Some  mim-mou’d  pouther’d  priestie, 
Fu'  lifted  up  wi’  Hebrew'  lore, 

And  band  upon  his  breastie  : 

But  oh  ! what  signifies  to  you 
His  lexicons  and  grammars  ; 

The  feeling  hearts’  the  royal  blue, 

And  that’s  wi’  Willie  Chalmers. 


V. 

Some  gapin’,  glowrin’,  countra  laird, 
May  warsle  fur  your  favor  ; 

May  claw  his  lug,  and  straik  his  beard, 
And  host  up  some  palaver. 

My  botinie  maid,  before  ye  wed 
Sic  clumsy-witted  hammers, 

Seek  Heaven  for  help,  and  barefit  skelp 
Awa’  wi’  Willie  Chalmers. 

VI. . 

Forgive  the  Bard!  my  fond  regard 
For  ane  that  shares  my  bosom, 
Inspires  my  muse  to  gie ’m  his  dues, 
For  de’il  a hair  I roose  him. 

May  powers  aboon  unite  you  soon, 

And  fructify  your  amors, — 

And  every  year  come  in  mair  dear 
To  you  and  Willie  Chalmers. 


LINES. 

WRITTEN  ON  A BANK  NOTE. 

Wae  worth  thy  power,  thou  cursed  leaf, 

Fell  source  o’  a’  my  woe  and  grief; 

For  lack  o’  thee  I’ve  lost  my  lass, 

For  lack  o’  thee  I scrimp  my  glass. 

I see  the  children  of  affliction 
Unaided,  through  thy  cursed  restriction. 

I’ve  seen  the  oppressor’s  cruel  smile 
Amid  his  hapless  victim's  spoil : 

And  for  thy  potence  vainly  wish’d, 

To  crush  the  villain  in  the  dust. 

For  lack  o’  thee,  I leave  this  much  lov’d  shore, 
Npver,  perhaps,  to  greet  old  Scotland  more. 


A BARD’S  EPITAPH. 

Is  there  a whim-inspiring  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  oWre  proud  to  snool, 
Let  him  draw  near ; 

^jtd  owre  this  grassy  h6ap  sing  dool» 

And  drap  a tear. 

Is  there  a bard  of  rustic  song, 

Who,  noteless,  steals  thp  crowds  among, 
That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

0.  pass  pot  by  ! 

But,  with  a frater-feeling  strong, 

Here,  heave  a sigh. 

Is  there  a man,  whose  judgment  clear, 

Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 

Yet  runs,  himself,  life’s  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  wave  ; 

Here  pause — and,  through  the  starting  tear. 
Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below, 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame, 

But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain’d  his  name  ! 
Header,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy’s  flights  beyond  the  pole, 

Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

Tn  low  pursuit ; 

Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control. 

Is  wisdom’s  root. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


129 


EPISTLE  TO  MAJOR  LOGAN. 

Hail,  thairm-inspirin’,  rattlin’  Willie  ! 
Though  fortune’s  road  be  rough  an’  hilly 
To  every  fiddling,  rhyming  billie, 

We  never  heed, 

But  take  it  like  the  unbacked  filly, 

Proud  o’  her  speed. 

When  id!/  groavan  whyles  we  saunter, 

Yirr,  fancy  bark?,  awa’  we  canter 
Uphill,  down  brae,  till  some  mishanter, 

Some  black  bog-hole, 

Arrests  us,  the  then  scathe  an’  banter 

We’re  forced  to  thole. 

Hale  be  your  heart ! hale  be  your  fiddle  ! 

Lang  may  your  eibuck  jink  and  diddle, 

To  cheer  you  through  the  weary  widdle 
O’  this  wild  warl’, 

Until  you  on  a crummock  driddle 

A gray-hair'd  carl. 

Come  wealth,  come  poortith,  late  or  soon, 
Heaven  send  your  heart-strings  ay  in  tune, 
And  screw  your  temper  pins  aboon 
A fifth  or  mair, 

The  melancholious,  lazie  croon 

O’  cankrie  care. 

,May  still  your  life,  from  day  to  day, 

Nae  “ lente  largo”  in  the  play, 

But  “ allegretto  forte  ” gay 

Harmonious  flow, 

A sweeping,  kindling,  bauld  strathspey — 
Encore ! bravo  ! 

A blessing  on  the  cherry  gang 
Wha  dearly  like  a jig  or  sang, 

An1  never  think  o’  right  an’  wrang 
By  square  an’  rule, 

But  as  the  clegs  o’  feeling  stang 

Are  wise  or  fool. 

My  hand-waled  curse  keep  hard  in  chase 
The  harpy,  hoodock,  purse  proud  race, 

Wha  count  on  poortith  as  disgrace — 

Their  tuneless  hearts ! 

Hay  fireside  discords  jar  a base 

To  a’  their  parts  ! 

But  come,  your  hand,  my  careless  brither, 

I’  th’  ither  warl’,  if  there’s  anither, 

An’  that  there  is  I”ve  little  swither 
About  the  matter ; 

We  cheek  for  chow  shall  jog  thegithcr, 

I’se  ne’er  bid  better. 

We’ve  faults  and  failings — granted  clearly. 
We’re  frail  backsliding  mortals  merely, 

Eve’s  bonnie  squad  priests  wyte  them  sheerly, 
For  our  grand  fa’; 

But  still,  but  still,  T like  them  dearly — 

God  bless  them  a’ ! 

Ochon  for  poor  Castalian  drinkers, 

When  they  fa’  foul  o’  earthly  jinkers, 

The  witching,  curs’d,  delicious  blinkers 
Hae  put  me  hyte, 

And  gart  me  sweet  my  waukrife  winkers, 

Wi’  giman  spite. 

But  by  yon  moon  ! — and  that’s  high  swearin’ — 
An’  every  star  within  my  hearin’  ! 

An’  by  her  een  wha  was  a dear  ane  1 
I'll  ne’er  forget ; 

I hope  to  gie  the  jads  a clearin’ 

In  fair  play  yet. 


I\Ty  loss  I mourn,  but  not  repent  it, 

I’ll  seek  my  pursie  whare  I tint  it, 

Ance  to  the  Indies  I were  winted, 

Some  cantraip  hour, 

By  some  sweet  elf  I’ll  yet  be  dinted, 

Then,  i rive  V amour  ! 

Faites  mes  baissemains  respectueuse , 

To  sentimental  sister  Susie, 

An’  honest  Lucky  ; no  to  roose  you, 

Ye  may  be  proud, 

That  sic  a couple  fate  allows  ye 

To  grace  your  blood. 

Nae  mair  at  present  can  I measure, 

An’  trowth  my  rhymin’  ware’s  nae  treasure  ; 
But  when  in  Ayr,  some  half-hour’s  leisure, 
Be’t  light,  be’t  dark, 

Sir  Bard  will  do  himself the  pleasure 
To  call  at  Park. 

Mossgiel,  30th  October,  1786. 


ON 

THE  DEATH  OF  ROBERT  DUNDAS,  Esq. 
OF  ARNISTON, 

LATE  LORD  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  COURT  OF  SESSION. 

Lone  on  the  bleaky  hills  the  straying  flocks 
Shun  the  fierce  storms  among  the  sheltering 
rocks  ; 

Down  from  the  rivulets,  red  with  dashing  rains, 
The  gathering  floods  burst  o’er  the  distant 
plains  ; 

Beneath  the  blasts  the  leafless  forests  groan  ; 
The  hollow  caves  return  a sullen  moan. 

Ye  hills,  ye  plains,  ye  forests,  and  ye  caves, 

Ye  howling  winds,  and  wintry  swelling  waves! 
Unheard,  unseen,  by  human  ear  or  eye, 

Sad  to  your  sympathetic  scenes  I fly  ; 

Where  to  the  whistling  blast  and  waters’  roar, 
Pale  Scotia’s  recent  wound  I may  deplore. 

O heavy  loss,  thy  country  ill  could  bear! 

A loss  these  evil  days  can  ne’er  repair  ! 

Justice,  the  high  vicegerent  of  her  God, 

Her  doubtful  balance  ey’d,  and  sway’d  her  rod  ; 
Hearing  the  tidings  of  the  fatal  blow, 

She  sunk,  abandon’d  to  the  wildest  woe. 

Wrongs,  injuries,  from  many  a darksome  den, 
Now  gay  in  hope,  explore  the  paths  of  men  : 
See  from  his  cavern  grim  Oppression  rise, 

And  throw  on  Poverty  his  cruel  eyes  ; 

Keen  on  the  helpless  victim  see  him  fly, 

And  stifle,  dark,  the  feebly-bursting  cry  : 

Mark  ruffian  Violence,  distain’d  with  crimes, 
Rousing  elate  in  these  degenerate  times, 

View  unsuspecting  Innocence  a prey, 

As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  erring  way  : 
While  subtile  Litigation’s  pliant  tongue 
The  life-blood  equal  sucks  of  Right  and  Wrong: 
Hark,  injur’d  Want  recounts  th’  unlisten’d  tale.. 
And  much- wrong’d  Mis’ry  pours  th’  unpitied 
wail ! 

Ye  dark  waste  hills,  and  brown  unsightly  plains, 
To  you  I sing  my  grief-inspired  strains  : 

Ye  tempests,  rage  ! ye  turbid  torrents,  roll  ! 

Ye  suit  the  joyless  tenor  of  my  soul. 


BURNS’  POEMS 


130 

Life’s  social  haunts  and  pleasures  I resign, 

Be  nameless  wilds  and  lonely  wanderings  mine, 
To  mourn  the  woes  my  country  must  endure, 
That  wound  degenerate  ages  cannot  cure. 


EPISTLE 

TO  HUGH  PARKER. 

In  this  strange  land,  this  uncouth  clime, 

A land  unknown  to  prose  or  rhyme  ; 

Where  words  ne’er  crost  the  muse’s  heckles, 
Nor  limpet  in  poetic  shackles  ; 

A land  that  prose  did  never  view  it, 

Except  when  drunk  he  stacher’t  thro’  it ; 
Here,  ambush’d  by  the  chimla  cheek, 

Hid  in  an  atmosphere  of  reek, 

I hear  a wheel  thrum  i’  the  neuk, 

I hear  it — for  in  vain  1 leuk. — 

The  red  peat  gleams,  a fiery  kernel, 
Enhusked  by  a fog  infernal : 

Here,  for  my  wonted  rhyming  raptures, 

I sit  and  count  my  sins  by  chapters  ; 

For  life  and  spunk,  like  ither  Christians, 

I’m  dwindled  down  to  mere  existence, 

Wi’  nae  converse  but  Gallowa’  bodies, 

Wi’  nae  kend  face  but  Jenny  Geddes’.* 
Jenny,  my  Pegasean  pride  ! 

Bowie  she  saunters  down  Nithside, 

And  ay  a westlin  leuk  she  throws, 

While  tears  hap  o’er  her  auld  brown  nose  ! 
Was  it  for  this,  wi’  canny  care, 

Thou  bure  the  Bard  through  many  a shire  ? 
At  howes  or  hillocks  never  stumbled, 

And  late  or  early  never  grumbled  ? — 

O,  had  I power  like  inclination, 

I’d  heeze  thee  up  a constellation, 

To  canter  with  the  Sagitarre, 

Or  loup  the  ecliptic  like  a bar  ; 

Or  turn  the  pole  like  any  arrow  ; 

Or  when  auld  Phcebus  bids  good-morrow, 
Down  the  zodiac  urge  the  race, 

And  cast  dirt  on  his  godship’s  face  ; 

For  I could  lay  my  bread  and  kail 
He’d  ne’er  cast  saut  upo’  thy  tail. — 

Wi’  a’  this  care  and  a’  this  grief, 

And  sma’,  sma’  prospect  of  relief, 

And  nought  but  peat  reek  i’  my  head, 

How  can  I write  what  ye  can  read  ? — 
Tarbolton,  twenty-fourth  o’  June, 

Ye’ll  find  me  in  a better  tune  ; 

But  till  we  meet  and  weet  our  whistle, 

Tak  this  excuse  for  nae  epistle. 


TO  JOHN  M’MURDO,  Esq. 

0,  could  I give  thee  India’s  wealth, 
As  I this  trifle  send  ! 

Because  thy  joy  in  both  would  be 
To  share  them  wi’  a friend. 

But  golden  sands  did  never  grace 
The  Heliconian  stream  ; 

Then  tak  what  gold  could  never  buy — 
An  honost  Bard’s  esteem. 

* His  mare. 


EPISTLE 

TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  Esq. 

OF  FINTRAY  : 

ON  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  DISPUTED  ELECTION  BETWEEN 

SIR  JAMES  JOHNSTON  AND  CAPTAIN'  MILLER,  FOR 
THE  DUMFRIES  DISTRICT  OF  BOROUGHS. 

Fintray,  my  stay  in  worldly  strife, 

Friend  o’  my  muse,  friend  o’  my  life, 

Are  ye  as  idle  ’slam? 

Come  then,  wi’  uncouth,  kintra  fleg, 

O’er  Pegasus  I’ll  fling  my  leg, 

And  ye  shall  see  me  try  him. 

I’ll  sing  the  zeal  Drumlanrig  bears, 

Who  left  the  all-important  cares 

Of  princes  and  their  darlings ; 
And,  bent  on  winning  borough  towns, 

Came  shaking  hands  wi’  wabster  lowns, 

And  kissing  barefit  carlins. 

Combustion  thro’  our  boroughs  rode, 

Whistling  his  roaring  pack  abroad 

Of  mad  unmuzzled  lions  ; 

As  Queensberry  buff  and  blue  unfurled, 

And  Westerha’  and  Hopeton  hurled 
To  every  Whig  defiance. 

But  cautious  Queensberry  left  the  war, 

Th’  unmanner’d  dust  might  soil  his  star ; 

Besides,  he  hated  bleeding : 

But  left  behind  him  heroes  bright, 

Heroes  in  Caesarean  fight, 

Or  Ciceronian  pleading. 

O ! for  a throat  like  some  huge  Mons-meg, 

To  muster  e’er  each  ardent  Whig 

Beneath  Drumlanrig’s  banner ; 
Heroes  and  heroines  commix, 

All  in  a field  of  politics, 

To  win  immortal  honor. 

M’Murdo  and  his  lovely  spouse, 

(Th’  enamor’d  laurels  kiss  her  brows!) 

Led  on  the  loves  and  graces : 

She  won  each  gaping  burgess’  heart, 

While  he,  all-conquering,  play’d  his  part 

Among  their  wives  and  lasses. 

Craigdarroch  led  a light-arm’d  corps, 

Tropes,  metaphors  and  figures  pour, 

Like  Hecla  streaming  thunder  : 
Glenriddel,  skill’d  in  rusty  coins, 

Blew  up  each  Tory’s  dark  designs, 

And  bar’d  the  treason  under. 

In  either  wing  two  champions  fought, 
Redoubted  Staig,*  who  set  at  naught 

The  wildest  savage  Tory  : 

And  Welsh, + who  ne’er  yet  flinch’d  his  ground, 
High-wav’d  his  magnum-bonum  round 
With  Cyclopeian  fury. 

Miller  brought  up  th’  artillery  ranks, 

The  many-pounders  of  the  Banks, 

Resistless  desolation  ! 

While  Maxwelton,  that  baron  bold, 

’Mid  Lawson’s!  port  entrench’d  his  hold, 

And  threaten’d  worse  damnation. 

To  these  what  Tory  hosts  oppos’d, 

With  these  what  Tory  warriors  clos’d, 
Surpasses  my  descriving : 

* Provost  Staig  of  Dumfries.  t Sheriff  Welsh. 

J Lawson,  a wine  merchant  in  Dumfries. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


131 


Squadrons  extenaea  long  and  large, 

With  furious  speed  rush  to  the  charge, 

Like  raging  devils  driving. 

What  verse  can  sing,  what  prose  narrate, 
The  butcher  deeds  of  bloody  fate 

Amid  this  mighty  tulzie  ! 

Grim  Horror  girn’d — pale  Terror  roar’d, 

As  Murther  at  lijs  thrapple  shor’d, 

And  hell  mix’d  in  the  brulzie. 

As  highland  craigs  by  thunder  cleft, 

When  light’nings  fire  the  stormy  lift. 

Hurl  down  with  crashing  rattle  : 
As  flames  among  a hundred  woods ; 

As  headlong  foam  a hundred  floods, 

Such  is  the  rage  of  battle  ! 

The  stubborn  Tories  dare  to  die  ; 

As  soon  the  rooted  oaks  would  fly 

Before  th’  approaching  fellers : 
The  Whigs  come  on  like  Ocean’s  roar, 
When  all  his  wintry  billows  pour 

Against  the  Buchan  Bullers. 

Lo,  from  the  shades  of  Death's  deep  night, 
Departed  Whigs  enjoy  the  fight, 

And  think  on  former  daring  : 
The  muffled  murtherer*  of  Charles 
The  Magna  Charta  flag  unfurls, 

All  deadly  gules  it’s  bearing. 

Nor  wanting  ghosts  of  Tory  fame, 

Bold  Scrimgeourt  follows  gallant  Graham, t 
Auld  Covenanters  shiver. 
(Forgive,  forgive,  much  wrong’d  Montrose  ! 
Nowr  death  and  hell  engulph  thy  foes, 

Thou  liv’st  on  high  forever  !) 

Still  o’er  the  field  the  combat  burns, 

The  Tories,  Whigs,  give  way  by  turns  ; 

But  Fate  the  word  has  spoken  : 
For  woman’s  wit,  and  strength  o’ man, 

Alas  ! can  do  but  what  they  can  ! 

The  Tory  ranks  are  broken. 

0 that  my  een  were  flowing  burns, 

My  voice  a lioness  that  mourns 

Her  darling  cubs’  undoing ! 

That  I might  greet,  that  I might  cry, 

While  Tories  fall,  while  Tories  fly, 

And  furious  Whigs  pursuing ! 

What  Whig  but  melts  for  good  Sir  James? 
Dear  to  his  country  by  the  names 

Friend,  patron,  benefactor! 

Not  Pulteney’s  wealth  can  Pulteney  save ! 
And  Hopeton  falls,  the  generous  brave  ! 

And  Stewart, § bold  as  Hector. 

Thou,  Pitt,  shalt  rue  this  overthrow  ; 

And  Thurlow  growl  a curse  of  woe  ; 

And  Melville  melt  in  wailing ! 
How  Fox  and  Sheridan  rejoice  ! 

And  Burke  shall  sing,  O Prince,  arise, 

Thy  power  is  all-prevailing ! 

For  your  poor  friend,  the  Bard,  afar 
He  only  hears  and  sees  the  war, 

A cool  spectator  purely  : 

So,  when  the  storm  the  forest  rends, 

The  robin  in  the  hedge  descends, 

And  sober  chirps  securely. 

*The  executioner  of  Charles  I.  was  masked, 
t Scrimgeour,  Lord  Dundee, 
i Graham,  Marquis  of  Montrose. 

V Stewart  of  Hillside. 


ADDRESS  OF  BEELZEBUB 

TO  T1IE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  HIGHLAND  SOCIETY. 

Long  life,  my  Lord,  an’  health  be  yours, 
Unskaith’d  by  hunger’d  Highland  boors  ; 

Lord  grant  nae  duddie  desperate  beggar, 

Wi’  dirk,  claymore,  or  rusty  trigger, 

May  twin  auld  Scotland  o’  a life 
She  likes — as  lambkins  like  a knife. 

Faith,  you  and  A s were  right 

To  keep  the  Highland  hounds  in  sight. 

I doubt  na’ ! they  wad  bid  nae  better 
Than  let  them  ance  out  owre  the  water ; 

Then  up  amang  thae  lakes  and  seas 
They’ll  mak’  what  rules  and  laws  they  please: 
Some  daring  Hancock,  or  a Franklin, 

May  set  their  Highland  bluid  a ranklin’ ; 

Some  Washington  again  may  head  them, 

Or  some  Montgomery  fearless  lead  them, 

Till  God  knows  what  may  be  effected, 

When  by  such  heads  and  hearts  directed— 
Poor  dunghill  sons  of  dirt  and  mire 
May  to  Patrician  rights  aspire  ! 

Nae  sage  North,  nor  sager  Sackville, 

To  watch  and  premier  o’er  the  pack  vile, 

An’  whare  will  ye  get  Howes  or  Clintons 
To  bring  them  to  a right  repentance, 

To  cowe  the  rebel  generation, 

An’  save  the  honor  of  the  nation  ? 

They  an’  be  d d ! what  right  hae  they 

To  meat,  or  sleep,  or  light  o’  day  ? 

Far  less  to  riches,  pow’r,  or  freedom, 

But  what  your  lordship  likes  to  gie  them  ? 

But  hear,  my  lord  ! Glengarry,  hear  ! 

Your  hand’s  owre  light  on  them,  I fear; 

Your  factors,  grieves,  trustees,  and  bailies, 

I canna’  say  but  they  do  gaylies  ; 

They  lay  aside  a’  tender  mercies, 

An’  tirl  the  hallions  to  the  birses  ; 

Yet  while  they’re  only  poind’t  and  herriet, 
They’ll  keep  their  stubborn  Highland  spirit ; 
But  smash  them  ! crash  them  a’  to  spails  ! 

An’  rot  the  dyvors  i’  the  jails ! 

The  young  dogs,  swinge  them  to  the  labor, 

Let  wark  an’  hunger  mak’  them  sober  ! 

The  hizzies,  if  they’re  aughtlins  fawsont, 

Let  them  in  Drury-lane  be  lesson’d  ! 

An’  if  the  wives  an’  dirty  brats 
E’en  thigger  at  your  doors  and  yetts, 

Flaffan  wi’  duds  an’  gray  wi’  beas’, 

Frightin’  away  your  aeucks  an’  geese, 

Get  out  a horsewhip  or  a jowler, 

The  langest  thong,  the  fiercest  growler, 

An  gar  the  tattered  gypsies  pack 
Wi’  a’  their  bastarts  at  their  back  ! 

Go  on,  my  Lord  ! I lang  to  meet  you, 

An’  in  my  house  at  hame  to  greet  you  ; 

Wi’  common  lords  ye  shanna  mingle, 

The  benmost  neuk  beside  the  ingle, 

At  my  right  han’  assign’d  your  seat 
’Tween  Herod’s  hip  and  Polycrate, — 

Or  if  you  on  your  station  tarrow, 

Between  Almagro  and  Pizarro, 

A seat.  I’m  sure  ye’re  weel  deservin’t ; 

An’  till  ye  come — Your  humble  servant, 

Beelzebub. 

June  1st,  Anno  Mundi,  1790. 


TO  JOHN  TAYLOR. 

With  Pegasus  upon  a day, 
Apollo  weary  flying, 


132 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Through  frosty  hills  the  journey  lay, — 
On  Toot  the  way  was  plying, 

Poor  slip-shod,  giddy  Pegasus, 

Was  but  a sorry  walker; 

To  Vulcan  then  Apollo  goes, 

To  get  a frosty  calker. 

Obliging  Vulcan  fell  to  work. 

Threw  by  his  coat  and  bonnet, 

And  did  Sol’s  business  in  a crack ; 

Sol  paid  him  with  a sonnet. 

Ye  Vulcan’s  sons  of  Wanlockhead, 
Pity  my  sad  disaster  ; 

My  Pegasus  is  poorly  shod — 

I’ll  pay  you  like  my  master. 


ON 

SEEING  MISS  FONTENELLE 
IN  A FAVORITE  CHARACTER. 

Sweet  naivete  of  feature, 

Simple,  wild,  enchanting  elf, 

Not  to  thee,  but  thanks  to  nature, 

Thou  art  acting  but  thyself. 

Wert  thou  awkward,  stiff,  affected, 
Spurning  nature,  torturing  art ; 
Loves  and  graces  all  rejected, 

Then  indeed  thou’d’st  act  a part. 


THE  BOOK-WORMS. 

Through  and  through  the  inspired  leaves, 
Y e maggots,  make  your  windings  ; 

But,  oh  ! respect  his  lordship’s  taste, 

And  spare  his  golden  bindings. 


THE  REPROOF. 

Rash  mortal,  and  slanderous  Poet,  thy  name 
Shall  no  longer  appear  in  the  records  of  fame  ; 
Dost  not  know  that  old  Mansfield,  who  writes 
like  the  Bible, 

Says,  the  more  ’tis  a truth,  Sir,  the  more  ’tis  a 
libel  ? 


THE  REPLY. 

Like  Esop’s  lion,  Burns’  says,  sore  I feel 
All  others  scorn — but  damn  that  ass’s  heelN 


THE  KIRK  OF  LAMINGTON. 

As  cauld  a wind  as  ever  blew, 

A caulder  kirk,  and  in’t  but  few  ; 

As  cauld  a minister’s  e'er  spak, 

Ye’se  a’  be  het  ere  I come  back. 


THE  LEAGUE  AND  COVENANT. 

The  Solemn  League  and  Covenant 

Cost  Scotland  blood — cost  Scotland  tears  : 
But  it  seal’d  freedom’s  sacred  cause — 

If  thou’rt  a slave,  indulge  thy  sneers. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A GOBLET. 

There’s  death  in  the  cup — sae  beware  ! 

Nay,  more — there  is  danger  in  touching  : 
But  wha  can  avoid  the  fell  snare  ? 

The  man  and  the  wine  sae  bewitching  ! 


THE  TOAD-EATER. 

What  of  earls  with  whom  you  have  supt, 

And  of  dukes  that  you  dined  with  yestreen  ? 
Lord  ! a louse,  Sir,  is  still  but  a louse, 

Though  it  crawl  on  the  curls  of  a queen. 


THE  SELKIRK  GRACE. 

Some  hae  meat  and  canna  eat, 

And  some  wad  eat  that  want  it. 
But  we  hae  meat,  and  we  can  eat, 
And  sae  the  Lord  be  thanket. 


ON  THE  POET’S  DAUGHTER. 

Here  lies  a rose,  a budding  rose, 
Blasted  before  its  bloom  ; 

Whose  innocence  did  sweets  disclose 
Beyond  that  flower’s  perfume. 

To  those  who  for  her  loss  are  griev’d, 
This  consolation’s  given — 

She’s  from  a world  of  wo  reliev’d, 

And  blooms  a rose  in  heaven. 


THE  SONS  OF  OLD  KILLIE. 
Tune— “ Shawnboy.” 

I.  " 

Ye  sons  of  old  Killie,  assembled  by  Willie, 

To  follow  the  noble  vocation.;  [other 

Your  thrifty  auld  mother  has  ^scarce  such  an- 
To  sit  in  that  honored  station. 

Pve  little  to  say,  but  only  to  pfay, 

As  praying’s  the  ton  of  your  fashion; 

A prayer  from  the  muse  you  well  may  excuse, 
’Tis  seldom  her  favorite  passion. 

II. 

Ye  powers  who  preside  o’er  the  wdnd  and  the 
tide, 

Who  marked  each  element’s  border  ; 

Who  formed  this  frame  with  beneficent  aim, 
Whose  sovereign  statute  is  order;  [tentioa 
Within  this  dear  mansion  may  wayward  con- 
Or  wither’d  envy  ne’er  enter  ; 

May  secresy  round  be  the  mystical  bound, 

And  brotherly  love  be  the  centre. 


ON  A SUICIDE. 

Earth’d  up  here  lies  an  imp  o’  hell, 
Planted  by  Satan’s  dibble — 

Poor  silly  wretch,  he’s  damn’d  himsel’, 
To  save  the  Lord  the  trouble. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


133 


THE  JOYFUL  WIDOWER. 

Tune—5'  Maggy  Lauder.” 

I. 

I married  with  a scolding  wife 
The  fourteenth  of  November  ; 

She  made  me  weary  of  my  life, 

By  one  unruly  member. 

Long  did  I bear  the  heavy  yoke, 

And  many  griefs  attended  ; 

But.  to  my  comfort  be  it  spoke, 

Now,  now  her  life  is  ended. 

II. 

We  liv’d  full  one  and  twenty  years 
A man  and  wife  together  ; 

At  length  from  me  her  course  she  steer’d, 
And  gone  I know  not  whither: 

Would  I could  guess,  I do  profess, 

I speak,  and  do  not  flatter, 

Of  all  the  women  in  the  world, 

I never  could  come  at  her. 

III. 

Her  body  is  bestowed  well, 

A handsome  grave  does  hide  her ; 

But  sure  her  soul  is  not  in  hell, 

The  deil  would  ne’er  abide  her. 

I rather  think  she  is  aloft, 

And  imitating  thunder  ! 

For  why, — methinks  I hear  her  voice 
Tearing  the  clouds  asunder. 


THERE  WAS  A LASS. 

Tune — “Duncan  Davison.” 

I. 

There  was  a lass,  they  ca’d  her  Meg, 

And  she  held  o’er  the  moors  to  spin  ; 

There  was  a lad  that  follow’d  her, 

They  ca’d  him  Duncan  Davison. 

The  moor  was  driegh,  and  Meg  was  skiegh, 
Her  favor  Duncan  could  na  win  ; 

For  wi’  the  roke  she  wad  him  knock, 

And  ay  she  shook  the  temper-pin. 

II. 

As  o’er  the  moor  they  lightly  foor, 

A burn  was  clear,  a glen  was  green, 

Upon  the  banks  they  eas'd  their  shanks, 

And  ay  she  set  the  wheel  between  : 

But  Duncan  swore  a haly  aith, 

That  Meg  should  be  a bride  the  morn, 

Then  Meg  took  up  her  spinnin’  graith, 

And  flang  them  a’  out  o’er  the  burn. 

III. 

We’ll  big  a house — a wee,  wee  house. 

And  we  will  live  like  king  and  queen, 

Sae  blithe  and  merry  we  will  be 
When  ye  set  by  the  wheel  at  e’en. 

A man  may  drink  and  no  be  drunk  ; 

A man  may  fight  and  no  be  slain  ; 

A man  may  kiss  a bonnie  lass, 

And  ay  be  welcome  back  again. 


THE  N I EL  MENZIE’S  BONNIE 
MARY. 

Tune — “The  Ruffian’s  Rant.” 

I. 

In  coming  by  the  brig  o’  Dye, 

At  Darlet  we  a blink  did  tarry  ; 

As  day  was  dawnin’  in  the  sky, 

We  drank  a health  to  bonnie  Mary. 

Theniel  Menzie’s  bonnie  Mary, 
Theniel  Menzie’s  bonnie  Mary  ; 

Charlie  Gregor  tint  his  plaidie, 

Kissin’  Theniel’s  bonnie  Mary. 

II. 

Her  een  sae  bright,  her  brow  sae  white, 
Her  hafiet  locks  as  brown’s  a berry  ; 

And  ay,  they  dimpl’t  wi’  a smile, 

The  rosy  cheeks  o’  bonnie  Mary. 

III. 

We  lap  and  danced  the  lee  lang  day, 

Till  piper  lads  were  wae  and  weary  ; 

But  Charlie  got  the  spring  to  pay, 

For  kissin’  Theniel’s  bonnie  Mary. 

Theniel  Menzie’s  bonnie  Mary, 
Theniel  Menzie’s  bonnie  Mary; 

Charlie  Gregor  tint  his  plaidie, 

Kissin’  Theniel’s  bonnie  Mary. 


FRAE  THE  FRIENDS  AND  LAND 
I LO VE . 

Air — “ Carron  Side.” 

I. 

Frae  the  friends  and  land  I love, 

Driv’n  by  fortune’s  felly  spite, 

Frae  my  best  belov’d  I rove, 

Never  mair  to  taste  delight ; 

Never  mair  maun  hope  to  find 
Ease  from  toil,  relief  frae  care  ; 

When  remembrance  wracks  the  mind, 
Pleasures  but  unvail  despair. 

II. 

Brightest  climes  shall  mirk  appear, 

Desert  ilka  blooming  shore, 

Till  the  fates,  nae  mair  severe, 

Friendship,  love,  and  peace  restore; 

Till  Revenge,  wi’  laurell’d  head, 

Bring  our  banish’d  hame  again  ; 

And  ilk  loyal  bonnie  lad 

Cross  the  seas  and  win  his  ain. 


WEARY  FA’  YOU,  DUNCAN  GRAY. 

Tune — “ Duncan  Gray.” 

Weary  fa’  you,  Duncan  Gray — 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o’t! 

Wae  gae  by  you,  Duncan  Gray — 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o’t ! 

When  a’  the  lave  gae  to  their  play, 

Then  I maun  sit  the  lee  lang  day, 

And  jog  the  cradle  wi’  my  tae, 

And  a’  for  girdin  o’t. 

II. 

Bonnie  was  the  Lammas  moon— 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o’t ! 


134 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


Glowrin’  a’  the  hills  aboon — 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o’t ! 

The  girdin  brak,  the  beast  came  down, 

I tint  my  curch,  and  baith  my  shoon  ; 

Ah  ! Duncan  ye’re  an  unco  loon — 

Wae  on  tha  bad  girdin  o’t ! 

III. 

But,  Duncan,  gin  ye’ll  keep  your  aith — 
Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o’t  ! 

Ise  bless  you  wi’  my  hindmost  breath — 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin  o’t ! 

Duncan,  gin  ye’ll  keep  your  aith, 

The  beast  again  can  bear  us  baith, 

And  auld  Mess  John  will  mend  the  skaith,~ 
And  clout  the  bad  girden  o’t. 


THE  BLUDE  RED  ROSE  AT  YULE 
MAY  BLAW. 

Tune — “To  daunton  me.'1 

I. 

The  blude  red  rose  at  Yule  may  blaw, 

The  simmer  lilies  bloom  in  snaw, 

The  frost  may  freeze  the  deepest  sea ; 

But  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

To  daunton  me,  and  me  so  young, 

Wi’  his  fause  heart  and  flatt’ring  tongue, 
That,  is  the  thing  you  ne’er  shall  see  ; 

For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

II. 

For  a’  his  meal  and  a’  his  maut, 

For  a’  his  fresh  beef  and  his  saut, 

For  a’  his  gold  and  white  monie, 

An  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

III. 

His  gear  may  buy  him  kye  and  yowes, 

His  gear  may  buy  him  glens  and  knowes  ; 

But  me  he  shall  not  buy  nor  fee. 

For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

IV. 

He  hirples  twa  fauld  as  he  dow, 

Wi’  his  teethless  gab  and  his  auld  beld  pow, 
And  the  rain  rains  down  frae  his  red  bleer’d 
ee — 

That  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

To  daunton  me,  and  me  sae  young, 

Wi’  his  fause  heart  and  flatt’ring  tongue. 
That  is  the  thing  you  ne’er  shall  see  ; 

For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune— “Up  wi’  the  Ploughraan.,, 

I. 

The  ploughman  he’s  a bonnie  lad, 

His  mind  is  ever  true,  jo  ; 

His  garters  knit  below  his  knee, 

His  bonnet  it  is  blue,  jo. 

Then  up  wi’  the  ploughman  lad, 
And  hey  my  merry  ploughman  ! 
Of  a’  the  trades  that  I do  ken, 
Commend  me  to  the  ploughman. 


II. 

My  ploughman  he  comes  hame  at  e’en, 
He’s  aften  wat  and  weary  ; 

Cast  of  the  wat.  put  on  the  dry, 

And  gae  to  bed,  my  dearie  ! 

III. 

I will  wash  my  ploughman’s  hose, 

And  I will  dress  his  o’erlay  ; 

I will  mak  my  ploughman’s  bed, 

And  cheer  him  late  and  early. 

IV. 

I hae  been  east,  I hae  been  west, 

I hae  been  at  Saint  Johnston  ; 

The  bonniest  sight  that  e’er  I saw 
Was  the  ploughman  laddie  dancin’. 

V. 

Snaw-white  stockins  on  his  legs, 

And  siller  buckles  glancin’ ; 

A gude  blue  bonnet  on  his  head — 

And  0,  but  he  was  handsome  ! 

VI. 

Commend  me  to  the  barn-yard, 

And  the  corn-mou.  man; 

I never  gat  my  coggie  fou, 

Till  I met  wi’  the  ploughman. 

Up  wi’  my  ploughman  lad, 

And  hey  my  merry  ploughman! 

Of  a’  the  trades  that  I do  ken, 
Commend  me  to  the  ploughman. 


RATTLIN’  ROARIN’  WILLIE. 

Tune — “ Rattlin’,  Roarin’  Willie.'5 

I. 

0 rattlin’,  roarin’  Willie, 

O,  he  held  to  the  fair, 

An’  for  to  sell  his  fiddle, 

An’  buy  some  other  ware  ; 

But  parting  wi’  his  fiddle, 

The  saut  tear  blin’t  his  ee, 

And  rattlin’,  roarin’  Willie, 

Ye’re  welcome  home  to  me! 

II. 

0 Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle, 

0 sell  your  fiddle  sae  fine  ; 

O Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle, 

And  buy  a pint  o’  wine  ! 

If  I should  sell  my  fiddle, 

The  warl’  would  think  I was  mad, 
For  mony  a rantin’  day, 

My  fiddle  and  1 hae  had. 

III. 

As  I cam  by  Crochallan, 

1 cannily  keekit  ben — 

Rattlin’,  roarin’  Willie 

Was  sitting  at  yon  board  en’  ; 

Sitting  at  yon  board  en1, 

And  amang  good  companie; 

Rattlin’,  roarin'  Willie, 

Ye’re  welcome  hame  to  me  ! 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


135 


AS  I WAS  A-WAND’RING. 

Tune — “ Rinn  Meudial  mo  Mhealladh.” 

I. 

As  I was  a wand’ring  ae  midsummer  e’enin’. 
The  pipers  and  youngsters  were  making  their 
game ; 

Amang  them  I spied  my  faithless  fause  lover, 
Which  bled  a'  the  wounds  o’  my  dolor  again. 
Weel,  since  he  has  left  me,  may  pleasure  gae  wi1 
him  ; 

I may  be  distress’d,  but  I winna  complain ; 

I flatter  my  fancy  I may  get  anither, 

My  heart  it  shall  never  be  broken  for  ane. 

II. 

I couldna  get  sleeping  till  dawnin’  for  greetin’, 
The  tears  trickled  down  like  the  hail  and  the 
rain: 

Had  I na  got  greetin’,  my  heart  wad  a broken, 
For,  oh  ! love  forsaken’s  a tormenting  pain. 

III. 

Although  he  has  left  me  for  greed  o’  the  siller, 

I dinna  envy  him  the  gains  he  can  win  ; 

I rather  wad  bear  a’  the  lade  o’  my  sorrow 
Than  ever  hae  acted  sae  faithless  to  him. 
Weel,  since  he  has  left  me,  may  pleasure  gae  wi’ 
him, 

I may  be  distress’d,  but  I winna  complain  ; 

I flatter  my  fancy  I may  get  anither, 

My  heart  it  shall  never  be  broken  for  ane. 


MY  HARRY  WAS  A GALLANT  GAY. 

Tune— “ Highlander’s  Lament.” 

I. 

My  Harry  was  a gallant  gay, 

Fu’  stately  strode  he  on  the  plain: 

But  now  he’s  banished  far  away, 

I’ll  never  see  him  back  again. 

0 for  him  back  again  ! 

O for  him  back  again  ! 

1 wad  gie  a’  Knockhaspie’s  land. 

For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 

II. 

When  a'  the  lave  gae  to  their  bed, 

I wander  dowie  up  the  glen  ; 

I set  me  down  and  greet  my  fill, 

And  ay  I wish  him  back  again. 

III. 

O were  some  villains  hangit  high, 

And  ilka  body  had  their  ain ! 

Then  I might  see  the  joyfu’  sight, 

My  Highland  Harry  back  again. 

0 for  him  back  again  ! 

O for  him  back  again  ! 

1 wad  gie  a’  Knocknaspic’s  land, 

For  Highland  Harry  back  again. 


SIMMER’S  A PLEASANT  TIME. 
Tune— “ A waukin  o’  ”. 

I. 

Simmer’s  a pleasant  time, 

Flow’rs  of  ev’ry  color ; 


The  water  rins  o’er  the  heugh, 

And  I long  for  my  true  lover. 

Ay  waukin  O, 

Waukin  still  and  wearie  : 
Sleep  I can  get  nane 
For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 

II. 

When  I sleep  I dream, 

When  I wauk  I’m  eerie  ; 

Sleep  I can  get  nane 
For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 

III. 

Lanely  night  comes  on, 

A’  the  lave  are  sleeping ; 

I think  on  my  bonnie  lad, 

And  I bleer  my  een  with  greetin’. 
Ay  waukin  O, 

Waukin  still  and  wearie  : 
Sleep  I can  get  nane 
For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 


WHEN  ROSY  MAY. 

Tune — “ The  gardener  wi’  his  paidle.” 

I. 

When  rosy  May  comes  in  wi’  flowers, 

To  deck  her  gay,  green-spreading  bowers, 
Then  busy,  busy  are  his  hours — 

The  gard’ner  wi’  his  paidle. 

The  crystal  waters  gently  fa’ ; 

The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a’ ; 

The  scented  breezes  round  him  blaw — 
The  gard’ner  wi’  his  paidle. 

II. 

When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare 
To  steal  upon  her  early  fare, 

Then  thro’  the  dews  he  maun  repair — 

The  gard’ner  wi’  his  paidle. 

When  day,  expiring  in  the  west, 

The  curtain  draws  of  nature’s  rest, 

He  flies  to  her  arms,  he  lo’es  best— 

The  gard’ner  wi’  his  paidle. 


LADY  MARY  ANN. 

Tune— “ Craigtown’s  growing.” 

I. 

O,  Lady  Mary  Ann 

Looks  o’er  the  castle  wa’, 
She  saw  three  bonnie  boys 
Playing  at  the  ba’ ; 

The  youngest  he  W3S 

The  flower  amang  them  a’, 
My  bonnie  laddie’s  young. 

But  he’s  growin’  yet. 

II. 

O father ! O father  ! 

An’  ye  think  it  fit, 

We’ll  send  him  a year 
To  the  college  yet ; 

We’ll  sew  a green  ribbon 
Round  about  his  hat, 

And  that  will  let  them  ken 
He’s  to  marry  yet. 


136 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


m. 

Lady  Mary  Ann 

Was  a flower  i’  the  dew, 

Sweet  was  its  smell, 

And  bonnie  was  its  hue  ; 

And  the  langer  it  blossom’d, 

The  sweeter  it  grew  ; . 

For  the  lily  in  the  bud 
Will  be  bonnier  yet. 

IV. 

Young  Charlie  Cochran 
Was  the  sprout  of  an  aik  ; 

Bonnie  and  bloomin’, 

And  straught  was  its  make  : 

The  sun  took  delight 
To  shine  for  its  sake, 

And  it  will  be  the  brag 
O’  the  forest  yet. 

V. 

The  simmer  is  gane 

When  the  leaves  they  were  green, 
And  the  days  are  awa 
That  we  hae  seen  ; 

But  far  better  days 

I trust  will  come  again, 

For  my  bonnie  laddie’s  young, 

But  he’s  growin’  yev. 


MY  LOVE  SHE’S  BUT  A LASSIE  YET. 

Tune — Lady  Badinscoth’s  Reel.” 

I. 

My  love  she’s  but  a lassie  yet, 

My  love  she’s  but  a lassie  yet ; 

We’ll  let  her  stand  a year  or  twa, 

She’ll  no  be  half  sae  saucy  yet. 

I rue  the  day  I sought  her,  O, 

I rue  the  day  I sought  her,  O ; 

Wha  gets  her,  needs  na  say  she’s  woo’d, 

But  he  may  say  he’s  bought  her,  O ! 

II. 

Come,  draw  a drap  o’  the  best  o’t  yet, 

Come,  draw  a drap  o’  the  best  o’t  yet ; 

Gae  seek  for  pleasure  where  ye  will,. 

But  here  I never  miss’d  it  yet. 

We’re  a’  dry  wi’  drinking  o’t, 

We’re  a’  dry  wi’  drinking  o’t, 

The  minister  kiss’d  the  fiddler’s  wife, 

An’  could  na  preach  for  thinkin’  o’t. 


SENSIBILITY  HOW  CHARMING. 
Tube — “ Cornwallis’  Lament  for  Colonel  Muirhead.” 

I. 

Sensibility  how  charming, 

Dearest  Nancy  ! thou  can’st  tell, 

But  distress  with  horrors  arming, 

Thou  hast  also  known  too  well. 

Fairest  flower,  behold  the  lily, 

Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray — 

Let  the  blast  sweep  o’er  the  valley, 

See  it  prostrate  on  the  clay. 


n. 

Hear  the  woodlark  charm  the  forest. 

Telling  o’er  his  little  joys : 

Hapless  bird  ! a prey  the  surest 
To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure, 
Finer  feelings  can  besfow  ; 

Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure, 
Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  woe. 


OUT  OVER  THE  FORTH. 

Tune — “ Charlie  Gordon’s  welcome  hame.” 

I. 

Out  over  the  Forth  I look  to  the  north,  [me  t 
But  what  is  the  north  and  its  Highlands  to 
The  south  nor  the  east  gie  ease  to  my  breast. 
The  far  foreign  land,  or  the  wild  rolling  sea. 

II. 

But  I look  to  the  west,  when  I gae  to  rest,  [be; 

That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers  may 
For  far  in  the  west  lives  he  I lo’e  best, 

The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me. 


THE  TITHER  MORN. 

To  a Highland  Air. 

I. 

The  tither  morn, 

When  I forlorn, 

Aneath  an  aik  sat  moaning, 

I did  na  trow, 

I’d  see  my  Jo, 

Beside  me,  gain  the  gloaming. 

But  he  sae  trig, 

Lap  o’er  the  rig, 

And  dawtingly  did  cheer  me, 

When  I,  what  reck, 

Did  least  expec’, 

To  see  my  lad  sae  near  me. 

II. 

His  bonnet  he, 

A thought  ajee. 

Cock’d  sprush  when  first  he  clasp’d  me  ; 
And  I,  I wat, 

Wi’  faintness  grat, 

While  in  his  grips  he  press’d  me. 

Deil  tak’  the  war  ! 

I late  and  air, 

Hae  wish’d  since  Jock  departed  ; 

But  now  as  glad 
I’m  wi’  my  lad, 

As  short  syne  broken-hearted. 

III. 

Fu’  aft  at  e’en 
Wi’  dancin’  keen, 

When  a’  were  blithe  and  merry, 

I car’d  na  by, 

Sae  sad  was  I 
In  abscenee  o’  my  dearie. 

But.  praise  be  blest, 

My  mind’s  at  rest, 

I’m  happy  wi’  my  Johnny  : 

At  kirk  and  fair, 

I’se  ay  be  there, 

And  be  as  canty ’s  ony. 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


137 


THE  CARDIN’  O ’T. 

Tune — “ Salt-fish  and  dumplings.” 

I. 

I coft  a stane  o’  haslock  woo’, 

To  nrake  a wat  to  Johnny  o’t ; 

For  Johnny  is  my  only  jo, 

I lo’e  him  best  ot  ony  yet. 

The  cardin  o’t,  the  spinnin’  o’t, 

The  warpin’  o’t,  the  winnin’  o’t ; 
When  ilka  ell  cost  me  a groat, 

The  tailor  staw  the  lynin  o’t. 

II. 

For  though  his  locks  be  lyart  gray, 

And  tho’  his  brow  be  held  aboon  ; 

Yet  I hae  seen  him  on  a day, 

The  pride  of  a’  the  parishen. 

The  cardin’  o’t,  the  spinnin’  o’t, 
The  warpin’  o’t,  the  winnin’  o’t ; 
When  ilk  ell  cost  me  a groat, 

The  tailor  staw  the  lynin  o’t. 


THE  WEARY  FUND  O’  TOW. 

Tune — 4i  The  weary  Pund  o’  Tow.” 

I. 

The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund, 

The  weary  pund  o’  tow  ; 

I think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 
Before  she  spin  her  tow. 

I bought  my  wife  a stane  o’  lint 
As  gude  as  e’er  did  grow  ; 

And  a’  that  she  has  made  o’  that, 

Is  ae  poor  pund  o’  tow. 

II. 

There  sat  a bottle  in  a bole, 

Beyont  the  ingle  low, 

And  ay  she  took  the  tither  souk, 

To  drouk  the  stowrie  tow. 

III. 

Quoth  I,  for  shame,  ye  dirty  dame, 

Gae  spin  your  tap  o’  tow ! 

She  took  the  rock,  and  wi’  a knock 
She  brak  it  o’er  my  pow. 

IY. 

At  last  her  feet — I sang  to  see’t— 

Gaed  foremost  o’er  the  knowe  ; 

And  or  I wad  anither  jad, 

I’ll  wallop  in  a tow. 

The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund, 
The  weary  pund  o’  tow, 

I think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 
Before  she  spin  her  tow. 


SAE  FAR  AWA. 

Tune — “ Dalkeith  Maiden  Bridge.” 

I. 

O,  sad  and  heavy  should  I part, 

But  for  her  sake  sae  far  awa  ; 
Unknowing  what  my  way  may  thwart, 
My  native  land  sae  far  awa. 


Thou  that  of  a’  things  Maker  art. 

That  form’d  this  fair  sae  far  awa, 

Gie  body  strength,  then  I’ll  ne’er  start 
At  this  my  way  sae  far  awa. 

II. 

How  true  is  love  to  pure  desert, 

So  love  to  her  that’s  tar  awa  : 

And  nocht  can  heal  my  bosom’s  smart, 
While,  oh  ! she  is  sae  awa. 

Nane  other  love,  nane  other  dart, 

I feel  but  her’s,  sae  far  awa; 

But  fairer  never  touch’d  a heart 
Than  her’s,  the  fair  sae  far  awa. 


SUCH  A PARCEL  OF  ROGUES  IN 
A NATION 

Tune — “ A parcel  of  rogues  in  a nation.” 

I. 

Fareweel  to  a’  the  Scottish  fame, 

Fareweel  our  ancient  glory, 

Fareweel  e’en  to  the  Scottish  name, 

Sae  fam’d  in  martial  story, 

Now  Sark  rins  o’er  the  Solway  sands, 

And  Tweed  rins  to  the  ocean. 

To  mark  where  England’s  province  stands — 
Such  a parcel  of  rogoes  in  a nation. 

II. 

What  force  or  guile  could  not  subdue, 

Thro’  many  warlike  ages, 

Is  wrought  now  by  a coward  few, 

For  hireling  traitors’  wages. 

The  English  steel  we  could  disdain, 

Secure  in  valor’s  station  ; 

But  English  gold  has  been  our  bane— 

Such  a parcel  of  rogues  in  a nation. 

III. 

O would,  or  I had  seen  the  day, 

That  treason  thus  could  fell  us, 

My  auld  gray  head  had  lien  in  clay, 

Wi’  Bruce  and  loyal  Wallace  ! 

But  pith  and  power,  to  my  last  hour, 

I’ll  mak’  this  declaration  ; 

We’re  bought  and  sold  for  English  gold, — 
Such  a parcel  of  rogues  in  a nation. 


HERE'S  HIS  HEALTH  IN  WATER. 
Tune — “ The  Job  of  Journey-work.” 

Altho’  my  back  be  at  the  wa’, 

And  tho’  he  be  the  fautor  ; 

Altho’  my  back  be  at  the  wa’, 

Yet,  here’s  his  health  in  water  ! 

O ! wae  gae  by  his  wanton  sides, 

Sae  brawlie  he  could  flatter; 

Till  for  his  sake  I’m  slighted  sair, 

And  dree  the  kintra  clatter. 

But  tlio’  my  back  be  at  the  wa’, 

And  tho’  he  be  the  fautor; 

But  tho’  my  back  be  at  the  wa’, 

Yet  here’s  his  health  in  water! 


138  BURNS’ 

THE  LASS  OF  ECCLEFECHAN. 
Tune — “ Jacky  Latin.” 

I. 

Gat  ye  me,  O gat  ye  me, 

O gat  ye  me  wi’  naething  ? 

Rock  and  reel,  and  spinnin’  wheel, 

A mickle  quarter  basin. 

Bye  altour,  my  gutcher  has 
A hich  house  and  a laigh  ane, 

A’  for  bye,  my  bonnie  sel’, 

The  toss  of  Ecclefechan. 

II. 

0 haud  your  tongue  now,  Luckie  Laing, 

0 haud  your  tongue  and  jauner  ; 

1 held  the  gate  till  you  I met, 

Syne  I began  to  wander  : 

I tint  my  whistle  and  my  sang, 

1 tint  my  peace  and  pleasure  ; 

But  your  green  graff,  now,  Luckie  Laing, 
Wad  airt  me  to  my  treasure. 


THE  HIGHLAND  LADDIE. 

Tune — “ If  thou’lt  play  me  fair  play.” 

I. 

The  bonniest  lad  that  e’er  I saw, 

Bonnie  laddie,  Highland  laddie, 

Wore  a plaid,  and  was  fu’  braw, 

Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 

On  his  head  his  bonnet  blue, 

Bonnie  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ; 

His  royal  heart  was  firm  and  true, 
Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 

II. 

Trumpets  sound,  and  cannons  roar, 
Bonnie  lassie,  Lowland  lassie  ; 

And  a’  the  hills  wi’  echo  roar, 

Bonnie  Lowland  lassie. 

Glory,  honor,  now  invite, 

Bonnie  lassie,  Lowland  lassie, 

For  freedom  and  my  king  to  fight, 
Bonnie  Lowland  lassie. 

III. 

The  sun  a backward  course  shall  take, 
Bonnie  laddie,  Highland  laddie, 

Ere  aught  thy  manly  courage  shake, 
Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 

Go,  for  yourself  procure  renown, 

Bonnie  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ; 

And  for  your  lawful  king,  his  crown, 
Bonnie  Highland  laddie. 


HERE’S  TO  THY  HEALTH,  MY 
BONNIE  LASS. 

Tune— “ Laggan  Burn.” 

I. 

Here’s  to  thy  health,  my  bonnie  las3, 

Gude  night,  and  joy  be  wi’  thee; 

I’ll  come  nae  mair  to  thy  bower-door, 

To  tell  thee  that  I lo’e  thee. 

O dinna  think,  my  pretty  pink, 

But  I can  live  without  thee : 


POEMS. 

I vow  and  swear  I dinna  care 
How  lang  ye  look  about  ye. 

II. 

Thou’rt  ay  sae  free  informing  me 
Thou  hast  nae  mind  to  marry ; 

I’ll  be  as  free  informing  thee 
Nae  time  hae  I to  tarry. 

I ken  thy  friends  try  ilka  means, 

Frae  wedlock  to  delay  thee  ; 

Depending  on  some  higher  chance — 

But  fortune  may  betray  thee. 

III. 

I ken  they  scorn  thy  low  estate, 

But  that  does  never  grieve  me  ; 

But  I’m  as  free  as  any  he, 

Sma’  siller  will  relieve  me. 

I count  my  health  my  greatest  wealth, 

Sae  long  as  I enjoy  it  : 

I’ll  fear  nae  scant,  I’ll  bode  nae  want, 

As  lang’s  I get  employment. 

IV. 

But  far  off  fowls  hae  feathers  fair, 

And  ay  until  ye  try  them  : 

Tho’  they  seem  fair,  still  have  a care, 

They  may  prove  waur  than  I am. 

But  at  twal  at  night,  when  the  moon  shine* 
bright, 

My  dear,  I’ll  come  and  see  thee  ; 

For  the  man  who  lo’es  his  mistress  weel, 

Nae  travel  makes  him  weary. 


ADDRESS  TO  A YOUNG  LADY. 

Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives. 
In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  members  joined. 

Accept  the  gift ; tho’  humble  he  who  gives, 
Rich  is  the  tribute  of  a grateful  mind. 

So  may  no  ruffian  feeling  in  thy  breast 
Discordant  jar  thy  bosom-chords  among; 

But  peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest, 

Or  love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  song  : 

Or  pity’s  notes,  in  luxury  of  tears, 

As  modest  want  the  tale  of  woe  reveals  ; 

While  conscious  virtue  all  the  strain  endears, 
And  heaven-born  piety  her  sanction  seals. 


SONG. 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 
And  through  the  flowery  dale  ; 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  love  was  ay  the  tale. 

With  “ Mary,  when  shall  we  return, 
Sic  pleasure  to  renew  ?” 

Quoth  Mary,  Love,  I like  the  burn, 
And  ay  shall  follow  you.” 


O LAY  THY  LOOF  IN  MINE,  LASS. 

Tune — “ Cordwainer’s  March.” 

I. 

O lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass, 

In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass  ; 


BURNS’  POEMS. 


139 


And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass, 

That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 

A slave  to  love’s  unbounded  sway, 

He  aft  has  wrought  me  meikle  wae  ; 

But  now  he  is  my  deadly  fae, 

Unless  thou  be  my  ain. 

II. 

There’s  monie  a' lass  has  broke  my  rest, 
That  for  a blink  I hac  lo’ed  best ; 

But  thou  art  queen  within  my  breast, 
Forever  to  remain. 

O lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass, 

In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass  * 

And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass, 
And  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 


TO  CHLORIS. 

’Tis  Friendship’s  pledge,  my  young,  fair  friend, 
Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse, 

Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 
The  moralizing  muse. 

Since  thou,  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms, 

Must  bid. the  world  adieu, 

(A  world  ’gainst  peace  in  constant  arms), 

To  join  the  friendly  few. 

Since,  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o’ercast, 

Chill  came  the  tempest’s  lower  ; 

(And  ne’er  misfortune’s  eastern  blast 
Did  nip  a fairer  flower). 

Since  life’s  gay  scenes  must  charm  no  more, 
Still  much  is  left  behind  * 


Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store— 
The  comforts  of  the  mind  ! 

Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow 
On  conscious  honor’s  part ; 

And — dearest  gift  of  heaven  below — 
Thine  friendship’s  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refined  of  sense  and  taste, 
With  every  Muse  to  rove  : 

And  doubly  were  the  poet  blest, 

These  joys  could  he  improve. 


PEG-A-R  AMSE  Y. 
Tune — “ Cauld  is  the  e’enin’  blast.’1 

I. 

Cauld  is  the  e’enin’  blast 
O’  Boreas  o’er  the  pool, 

And  dawnin’  it  is  dreary, 

When  birks  are  bare  at  Yule. 

II. 

O bitter  blaws  the  winter  blast 
When  bitter  bites  the  frost, 

And  in  the  mirk  and  dreary  drift 
The  hills  and  glens  are  lost. 

III. 

Ne’er  sae  murky  blew  the  night 
That  drifted  o’er  the  hill, 

But  a bonnie  Peg-a-Ramsev 
Gat  grist  to  her  mill. 


' 


. 


* . 


* • 


* 


" • » 


GLOSSARY 


The  ch  and  gh  have  always  the  guttural  sound.  The  sound  of  the  English  diphthong  oo , is 
commonly  spelled  on.  The  French  u,  a sound  which  often  occurs  in  the  Scottish  language, 
is  marked  oo,  or  ui.  The  a in  genuine  Scottish  words,  except  when  forming  a diphthong,  or 
followed  by  an  e mute  after  a single  consonant,  sounds  generally  like  the  broad  English  a in 
wall.  The  Scottish  diphthong  ce,  always,  and  ea,  very  often,  sound  like  the  French  e mascu- 
line. The  Scottish  diphthong  ey,  sounds  like  the  Latin  ei. 


r.  All. 

Aback , away,  aloof. 

Abcigh,  at  a shy  distance. 

Aboon,  above,  up. 

Abrtad , abroad,  in  sight. 

Abreed,  in  breadth. 

Addle , putrid  water,  &c. 

Ae.  one. 

Aff \ off;  Affloof  \ unpremeditated. 

Afore , before. 

Aft,  oft. 

Aften,  often. 

Agley.  off  the  right  line ; wrong. 

Aibltns,  perhaps. 

Ain,  own. 

Airle-penny,  Airies , earnest-money. 

Aim,  iron. 

Aith,  an  oath. 

Aits,  oats. 

Aiver,  an  old  horse. 

Aizle,  a hot  cinder. 

Alake , alas. 

Alane,  alone. 

Akxcart,  awkward. 

Amaist,  almost. 

Amang,  among. 

An\  and ; if. 

Ante,  once. 

Ane,  one ; and. 

Antnt.  over  against. 

Anither , another. 

Ase,  ashes. 

Asklent,  asquint ; aslant 
Asteer,  abroad ; stirring, 

Athari,  athwart. 

Aught,  possession ; as,  in  a'  my  aught,  in  all  my  pos- 
session. 

Auld  lang  syne,  olden  time,  days  of  other  years. 

Auld.  old. 

Auldfarran , or  auld  farrant,  sagacious,  cunning,  pru- 
dent. 

Ava,  at  all. 

Aira'.  away. 

Awfu',  awful. 

Awn , the  beard  of  barley,  oats,  &c. 

Awnie,  bearded. 

Ayont , beyond. 


BA\  Ball. 

Backets,  ash  boards. 

Baeklins,  coming ; coming  back,  returning. 
Back,  returning. 

Bad.  did  bid. 

Baide,  endured,  did  stay. 

Baggie,  the  belly. 

Bainie,  having  large  boneB,  stout. 

Bairn , a child. 

Bairntime , a family  of  children,  a brood. 


Baith,  both. 

Ban,  to  swear.  ^ 

Bane , bone. 

Bang,  to  beat ; to  strive. 

Bardie,  diminutive  of  bard. 

Bare/it,  baretooted. 

Barmie,  of,  or  like  barm. 

Batch,  a crew,  a gang. 

Batts , bots. 

Baudrons , a cat. 

Bauld,  bold. 

Bawk,  bank. 

Baws'nt , having  a white  stripe  down  the  face. 

Be,  to  let  be ; to  give  over ; to  cease. 

Bear,  barley. 

Beastie,  diminutive  of  beast 
Beet,  to  add  fuel  to  fire. 

Beld,  bald. 

Belyve,  by  and  by. 

Ben , into  the  spence  or  parlor;  a spence. 

Benlomond,  a noted  mountain  in  Dumbartonshire. 
Bethankit,  grace  after  meat. 

Beuk,  a book. 

Bicker,  a kind  of  wooden  dish  ; a short  race. 

Bie,  or  Bicld,  shelter. 

Bien,  wealthy,  plentiful. 

Big,  to  build. 

Biggin,  building;  a house. 

Biggit,  built. 

Bill,  a bull. 

Billie,  a brother ; a young  fellow, 

Bing,  a heap  of  grain,  potatoes,  &c. 

Birk,  birch. 

Birken-shaw , Birchen-wood-shaw,  a small  wood. 
Birkie,  a clever  fellow. 

Birring,  the  noise  of  partridges,  &c.  when  they  spring. 
Bit,  crisis,  nick  of  time. 

Bizz,  a bustle,  to  buzz. 

Blastie,  a shrivelled  dwarf ; a term  of  contempt. 
Blastit,  blasted. 

Blate , bashful,  sheepish 
Blather,  bladder. 

Bland,  a flat  piece  of  any  thing;  to  slap. 

Bln w,  to  blow,  to  boast. 

! Bleerit,  bleared,  sore  with  rheum. 

| Bleert  and  blin\  bleared  and  blind. 

| Bleezing,  blazing, 
j Blellum , an  idle  talking  fellow. 

Blether,  to  talk  idly;  nonsense. 

Bleth'rin,  talking  idly. 

Blink,  a little  while;  a smiling  look;  to  look  kindlyj 
to  shine  by  fits. 

Blinker,  a term  of  contempt. 

Blinkin,  smirking. 

Blue-gown,  one  of  those  beggars  who  get  annually,  o« 
the  king’s  birth-day,  a blue  cloak  or  gown,  with  a 
badge. 

Bluiel.  blood. 

Bluntie,  a sniveller,  a stupid  person. 

Blype,  a shred,  a large  piece. 

141 


142 


GLOSSARY 


Bock , to  vomit,  to  gush  intermittently. 

Bocked,  gushed,  vomited. 

Bodle , a small  gold  coin. 

Bogles , spirits,  hobgoblins. 

Bonnie , or  bonny,  handsome,  beautiful. 

Bannock,  a kind  of  thick  cake  of  bread,  a small  jan- 
noek,  or  loaf  made  of  oatmeal. 

Boord,  a board. 

Boortree,  the  shrub  elder;  planted  much  of  old  in 
hedges  of  barn-yards,  &c. 

Boost,  behoved,  must  needs. 

Bore,  a hole  in  the  wall. 

Botch,  an  angry  tumor. 

Bousing,  drinking. 

Bow-kail,  cabbage. 

Bowt,  bended,  crooked. 

Brackens,  fern. 

Brae,  a declivity ; a precipice ; the  slope  of  a hill. 
Braid,  broad. 

Braindg't,  reeled  forward. 

Braik,  a kind  of  harrow. 

Braindge,  to  run  rashly  forward. 

Brak,  broke,  made  insolvent. 

Branks,  a kind  of  wooden  curb  for  horses. 

Brash,  a sudden  illness. 

Brats,  coarse  clothes,  rags,  &c. 

Brattle,  a short  race ; hurry  ; fury. 

Braw,  fine,  handsome. 

Brawly ,£r  brawlie , very  well ; finely ; heartily. 

Brazie,  ffnorbid  sheep. 

Breastie,  diminutive  of  breast. 

Breaslit,  did  spring  up  or  forward. 

Breckan , fern. 

Breef,  an  invulnerable  or  irresistible  spell. 

Breeks,  breeches. 

Brent,  smooth. 

Brewing  brewing. 

Brie,  juice,  liquid. 

Brig,  a bridge. 

Brunstane , brimstone. 

Brisket,  the  breast,  the  bosom. 

Brither,  a brother. 

Brock,  a badger. 

Brogue , a hum;  a trick. 

Broo,  broth ; liquid  ; water. 

Broose,  broth ; a race  at  country  weddings,  who  shall 
first  reach  the  bridegroom’s  house  on  returning  from 
church. 

Browster-wives , ale-house  wives. 

Brugh,  a burgh. 

Bruilzie.  a broil,  a combustion. 

Brunt,  did  burn,  burnt. 

Brust,  to  burst;  burst. 

Buchan-bullers,  the  boiling  of  the  sea  among  the  rocks 
on  the  coast  of  Buchan. 

Buckskin , an  inhabitant  of  Virginia. 

Bught,  a pen. 

Bughtin-time,  the.  time  of  collecting  the  sheep  in  the 
pens  to  be  milked. 

Buirdly,  stout-made;  broad-made. 

Bum-clock,  a humming  beetle  that  flies  in  the  summer 
evenings. 

Bumming,  humming  as  bees. 

Bummle , to  blunder. 

Bummler,  a blunderer. 

Bunker,  a window-seat. 

Burdies , diminutive  of  birds. 

Bure,  did  bear. 

Burn,  water;  a rivulet. 

Burnewin,  i.  e.  burn  the  wind , a black-smith. 

Burnie , diminutive  of  burn. 

Buslcie , bushy. 

Buskit,  dressed. 

Busks,  dresses. 

Bussle,  a bustle ; to  bustle. 

Buss,  shelter. 

But,  bol,  with ; without 

But  an'  ben,  the  country  kitchen  and  parlor. 

By  himsel,  lunatic,  distracted. 

Byke,  a bee-hive. 

Byre,  a.  cow-stable  ; a sheep-pen. 

C. 

CA',  To  call,  to  name  ; to  drive. 

Ca't,  or  ca'd,  called,  driven ; calved. 

Cadger,  a carrier. 

Cadie.  or  caddie , a person  ; a young  fellow. 


Caff,  chaff. 

Caird,  a tinker. 

Cairn,  a loose  heap  of  stones. 

Calf-vjard,  a small  enclosure  for  calves. 

Callan,  a boy. 

Caller,  fresh;  sound  ; refreshing. 

Canie,  or  cannie,  gentle,  mild;  dexterous. 

Cannilie,  dexterously;  gently. 

Cantie,  or  canty , cheerful,  merry. 

Cantraip,  a charm,  a spell. 

Cap-stane , cope-stone;  key-stone. 

Careerin , cheerfully. 

Carl,  an  old  man. 

Carlin,  a stout  old  woman. 

Cartes,  cards. 

Caudron,  a caldron. 

Cauk  and  keel,  chalk  and  red  clay. 

Cauld,  cold. 

Caup,  a wooden  drmking-vessel. 

Cesses,  taxes. 

Chanter,  a part  of  a bag-pipe. 

Chap,  a person,  a fellow;  a blow. 

Chaup,  a stroke,  a blow. 

Cheekit,  cheeked. 

Cheep,  a chirp ; to  chirp. 

Chid,  or  cheel,  a young  fellow. 

Chimla,  or  chimlie,  a fire-grate,  a fire-place. 
Chimla-lug,  the  fireside. 

Chittering,  shivering,  trembling. 

Chockin,  choking. 

Chow , to  chew ; cheek  for  chow , side  by  side. 

Chuff  e,  fat-faced. 

Clachan,  a small  village  about  a church ; a hamlet. 
Claise,  or  claes,  clothes. 

Claith,  cloth. 

Claithing,  clothing. 

Claivers,  nonsense ; not  speaking  sense. 

Clap,  clapper  of  a mill. 

Clarkit,  wrote. 

Clash,  an  idle  tale,  the  story  of  the  day. 

Clatter , to  tell  idle  stories ; an  idle  story, 

Claught,  snatched  at,  laid  hold  of. 

Claut,  to  clean  ; to  scrape. 

Clouted,  scraped. 

Clavers , idle  stories. 

Claw,  to  scratch. 

Cleed,  to  clothe. 

Cleeds,  clothes. 

Cleekit,  having  caught. 

Clinkin,  jerking;  clinking, 

Clinkumbell,  he  who  rings  the  church  belt. 

Clips,  shears. 

Clishmaclaver,  idle  conversation. 

Clock,  to  hatch  ; a beetle. 

Clockin,  hatching. 

Cloot,  the  hoof  of  a cow,  sheep,  &c. 

Clootie,  an  old  name  for  the  Devil. 

Clour,  a bump  or  swelling  after  a blow. 

Cluds , clouds. 

Coaxin,  wheedling. 

Coble,  a fishing-boat 

Cockernony,  a lock  of  hair  tied  upon  a girl’s  head- 
cap. 

Coft,  bought. 

Cog , a wooden  dish. 

Coggie,  diminutive  of  cog. 

Coila,  from  Kyle,  a district  of  Ayrshire ; so  called,  saith 
tradition,  from  Coil,  or  Coilus,  a Fictish  monarch. 
Collie,  a general,  and  sometimes  a particular  name  foi 
country  curs. 

Collieshangie,  quarrelling,  an  uproar. 

Commaun,  command. 

Cood,  the  cud. 

Coof,  a blockhead  ; a ninny. 

Cookit,  appeared,  and  disappeared,  by  fits. 

Coost , did  cast. 

Coot,  the  ancle  or  foot. 

Cootie,  a wooden  kitchen  dish  -—also,  those  fowl « 
whose  legs  are  clad  with  feathers , are  said  to  be 
cootie. 

Corbies,  a species  of  the  crow. 


GLOSSARY. 


143 


Core , corps;  party;  clan. 

Cor  n't.  fed  with  oats. 

Cotter,  the  inhabitant  of  a cot-house,  or  cottage 
Covthie , kind,  loving.  ° 

Cove , a cave. 

Coire.  to  terrify;  to  keep  under,  to  lop;  a fright;  a 
branch  of  furze,  broom,  See.  G 

Coup.  to  barter;  to  tumble  over  ; a “-an" 

Cowpit . tumbled.  °' 

Cowrin . cowering.  ' 

Cowt,  a colt. 

Cozie , snug. 

Cozily,  snugly. 

Crabbit.  crabbed,  fretful. 

Crack,  conversation;  to  converse. 

Crackin,  conversing. 

CVo/1.  or  croft,  a field  near  a house  (in  old  husbandry). 
Lratks.  cries  or  calls  incessantly ; a bird 

rZZli°\tlnk'  0r  cramb°  J"igle.  rhymes,  doggrel  verses. 
Crank,  the  no  se  ol  an  ungreased  wheel. 

C rankous.  fretful,  captious. 

Cranreuch,  the  hoar-frost. 

Crap,  a crop ; to  crop. 

Craw , a crow  of  a cock ; a rook. 

Creel,  a basket : to  have  one’s  wits  in  a creel,  to  be  craz- 
ed ; to  be  fascinated. 

Creep ie-s tool,  the  same  as  cutty-stool 
Creeshie,  greasy. 

Crood.  or  croud,  to  coo  as  a dove. 

Croon  a hollow  and  continued  moan ; to  make  a noise 

23S roar  of  a bnU  '• 10  h““ a 

Crouchie , crook-backed.  I 

Crouse,  cheerful ; courageous. 

Crousely,  cheerfully ; courageously. 

a composition  of  oat-meal' and  boiled  water. 
r^™el™es  tTtom  the  broth  of  beef,  mutton,  &c. 
Crowdie-time,  breakfast  time. 

Crowlin , crawling. 

Crummock,  a cow  with  crooked  horns. 
trump,  hard  and  brittle;  spoken  of  bread. 

Crunt,  a blow  on  the  head  with  a cudgel 
Luif,  a blockhead,  a ninny. 

Cummock , a short  staff  with  a crooked  head. 

Curchie,  a courtesy. 

on  ^ ioe’ prac,iced  in 
in  ™s,8,s- 

Curmunmg,  murmuring;  a slight  rumbling  noise. 

C urpm,  the  crupper.  ° 

Cushat,  the  dove,  or  wood-pigeon. 

Cutty,  short  ; a spoon  broken' in  the  middle. 

Cutty-stool,  the  stool  of  repentance. 


DADDIE,  a father. 

Baffin,  merriment ; foolishness. 

Daft,  merry,  giddy ; foolish. 

Batmen,  rare,  now  and  then;  daimenicker,  an  ear  of 
corn  now  and  then.  ’ 

painty,  pleasant,  good  humored,  agreeable. 

Daise,  daez,  to  stupi  fy. 

Dales,  plains,  valleys. 

Barklins,  darkling. 

Baud,  to  thrash,  to  abuse. 

Daur.  to  dare. 

Baurt,  dared. 

Baurg,  or  daurk , a day’s  labor. 

Bavoc.  David. 

Dated,  a large  piece. 

Bawtit , or  daw  let,  fondled,  caressed. 

Dearies,  diminutive  of  dears. 

Dearthfu’ , dear. 

Deave , to  deafen. 

Deil-ma-care ! no  matter;  for  all  that 
Deleerit , delirious. 

Descrive,  to  describe, 

Bight  to  wipe ; to  clean  corn  from  chaff. 

Bight,  cleaned  from  chaff. 

Bing,  to  worst,  to  push. 

Dink,  neat,  tidy,  trim. 

Dinna,  do  not. 

Btrl.  a slight  tremulous  stroke  or  pain 
Bizen,  or  dizz’n.  a dozen.  1 

Doited,  stupified,  hebetated 
Bolt,  stupified,  crazed. 


Bonsie , unlucky. 

EST ; " ,ins  doo!’ 10  ,amem. 10 

Borty,  saucy,  nice. 

Douce,  or  douse,  sober,  wise,  prudent. 

Doucely,  soberly,  prudently. 

Bought,  was  or  were  able. 

Boup,  backside. 

Boup-skelper.  one  that  strikes  the  tail. 

Bour  and  din,  sullen  and  sallow. 

Boure,  stout,  durable  ; sullen,  stubborn. 

Bow.  am  or  are  able,  can. 

Douff,  pithless,  wanting  force. 

Bowie,  worn  with  grief,  fatigue,  &c.,  half  asleeD 
Downu,  am  or  are  not  able, “cannot.  P‘ 

Boylt , stupid. 

Bozen’t,  stupified,  impotent. 

Brap.  a drop ; to  drop. 

Drain's,  “ dnigi!le  ^ 

* S,°W  e"“Cia‘i<>n- 

rZZ'Jll1’  *e<?Ious5  ,on?  about  it. 

Bnbble,  drizzling;  slaver. 

Drift,  a drove. 

Droddum,  the  breech. 

Drone,  part  of  a bagpipe. 

Z°uZ drops  auheempper. 

Brounting , drawling. 

Drouth , thirst,  drought. 

Brucken,  drunken. 

Brumly,  muddy. 

u?'ha„m„rer  miXCd  in  * raw  ““»• 

Bub,  a small  pond. 

Duds,  rags,  clothes. 

Buddie,  ragged. 

worsted  ; pushed,  driven. 

Dunted,  beaten,  boxed. 

Dush,  to  push  as  a ram,  &c. 

Dusht,  pushed  by  a ram,  ox,  &c. 

E. 


E'E,  the  eye. 

Een,  the  eyes. 

E'enin , evening. 

frjgbted,  dreading  spirits. 

End,  old  age. 

Elbuck.  the  elbow. 

Eldritch,  ghastly,  frightful. 

Eller,  an  elder,  or  church  officer- 
Erv,  end. 

Enbrugh,  Edinburgh. 

Eneugh , enough. 

Especial,  especially. 

Eltle  to  try,  to  attempt. 

Eydent,  diligent. 

F 

FA'  fall ; lot ; to  fall. 

Fas,  does  fall ; water-falls. 

Eaddom't,  fathomed. 

Fae,  a foe. 

Faem , foam. 

Faiket , unknown. 

Eainn,  a fairing;  a present. 

Fallow,  fellow. 

Fand,  did  find. 

Fari  a cake  of  oaten  bread,  Sec. 

fS,Xfearei  “ tr0“blei  10  'O* 

Fasteren  e'en,  Fasten’s  Even 
Fauld , a fold  ; to  fold 
F auldmg,  folding. 

F aut,  fault. 

Faute,  want,  lack. 

Fawsont  decent,  seemly. 

Feat,  a field ; smooth 
Fearfu',  frightful. 

Fear’t,  frighted. 

Feat,  neat,  spruce. 

Fecht,  to  fight. 

Fechtin,  fighting. 

Feck,  many,  plenty. 


GLOSSARY 


144 

Feckless,  puny,  weak,  silly. 

Feckly , weakly. 

Feg , a fig. 

Feide,  feud,  enmity. 

Feirrie,  stout,  vigorous,  healthy. 

Fell,  keen,  biting;  the  flesh  immediately  under  the 
skin  ; a field  pretty  level,  on  the  side  or  top  of  a hill. 
Fen,  successful  struggle;  fight. 

Fend , to  live  comfortably. 

Ferlie,  or  ferity,  to  wonder;  a wonder;  a term  of  con- 
tempt. 

Fetch,  to  pull  by  fits. 

Fetch't , pulled  intermittently. 

Fidge,  to  fidget. 

Fiel , soft,  smooth.  \ 

Fienl,  fiend,  a petty  oath. 

Fier,  sound,  healthy ; a brother ; a friend. 

Fissle,  to  make  a rustling  noise;  to  fidget;  a bustle. 
Fit,  a foot. 

Fittie-lan',  the  nearer  horse  of  the  hindmost  pair  in  the 
plough. 

Fizz,  to  make  a hissing  noise  like  fermentation. 
Flainen,  flannel. 

Fleech,  to  supplicate  in  a flattering  manner. 

Fleech'd , supplicated. 

Fleechin,  supplicating. 

Fleesh,  a fleece. 

Fleg,  a kick,  a random. 

Flether,  to  decoy  by  fair  words. 

Fletherin , flattering. 

Fley , to  scare,  to  frighten. 

Flichter,  to  flutter,  as  young  nestlings  when  their  dam 
approaches. 

Flinders , shreds,  broken  pieces,  splinters. 
Flinging-tree,  a piece  of  timber  hung  by  way  of  par- 
tition between  two  horses  in  a stable  ; a flail. 

Flisk,  to  fret  at  the  yoke.  Fliskit,  fretted. 

Flitter , to  vibrate  like  the  wings  of  small  birds. 
Flittering,  fluttering,  vibrating. 

Flunkie,  a servant  in  livery. 

Fodgel,  squat  and  plump. 

Foord,  a ford. 

Forbears , forefathers. 

Forbye,  besides. 

Forfairn , distressed ; worn  out,  jaded. 

Forfoughten , fatigued. 

Forgather,  to  meet,  to  encounter  with. 

Forgie , to  forgive. 

Forjesket , jaded  with  fatigue. 

Fother,  fodder. 

Fou,  full ; drunk. 

Foughten , troubled,  harassed. 

Fouth , plenty,  enough,  or  more  than  enough. 

Fow , a bushel,  &c. ; also  a pitch-fork. 

Frae,  from ; olf. 

Frammit , strange,  estranged  from,  at  enmity  with. 
Freath , froth. 

Frien\  friend. 

Fu\  full. 

Fud,  the  scut,  or  tail  of  the  hare,  cony,  &c.  , 

Fuff,  to  blow  intermittently. 

Fuff’t,  did  blow. 

Fannie,  full  of  merriment. 

Fur.  a furrow.  v 

Farm , a form,  bench. 

Fyke , trifling  cares;  to  piddle,  to  be  in  a fuss  about 
trifles. 

Fyle,  to  soil,  to  dirty. 

F yVt,  soiled,  dirtied. 

G. 

(xAB,  the  mouth ; to  speak  boldly,  or  pertly. 
Gaber-lunzie , an  old  man. 

Gadsman.  a ploughboy,  the  boy  that  drives  the  horses 
in  the  plough. 

Gae,  to  go ; gaed,  went ; gaen , or  gane , gone ; gaun, 
going- 

Gael,  or  gate,  way,  manner ; road. 

Gairs,  triangular  pieces  of  cloth  sewed  on  the  bottom 
of  a gown,  &c. 

Gang,  to  go,  to  walk. 

Gar,  to  make,  to  force  to. 

Gar'l,  forced  to. 

Garten,  a garter. 

Gash,  wise,  sagacious ; talkative ; to  converse 
Gasliin , conversing. 

Gaucy , jolly,  large. 


Gaud , a plougn. 

Gear,  riches ; goods  of  any  kind. 

Geek,  to  toss  the  head  in  wantonness  or  scorn. 

Ged,  a pike. 

Gentles,  great  folks,  gentry. 

Genty,  elegantly  formed,  neat. 

Geordie,  a guinea. 

Get,  a child,  a young  one. 

Ghaist,  a ghost. 

Gie.  to  give ; gied,  gave ; gien,  given. 

Giflie , diminutive  of  gift. 

Giglett,  playful  girls. 

Gillie,  diminutive  of  gill. 

Gilpey , a half  grown,  half  informed  boy  or  girl,  a romp- 
ing lad,  a hoiden. 

Gi/nmer,  a ewe  from  one  to  two  years  old. 

Gin,  if ; against. 

Gipsey,  a young  girl. 

Girn,  to  grin,  to  twist  the  features  in  rage,  agony,  &•- 
Girning , grinning. 

Gizz , a periwig. 

Glaikit,  inattentive,  foolish. 

Glaive , a sword. 

Gawky,  half-witted,  foolish,  romping. 

Glaizie,  glittering ; smooth  like  glass. 

Glaum,  to  snatch  greedily. 

Glaum'd,  aimed,  snatched. 

Gleck,  sharp,  ready. 

Gleg,  sharp,  ready. 

Gleib,  glebe. 

Glen,  a dale,  a deep  valley. 

Gley,  a squint;  to  squint ; a-gley , off  at  a side,  wrong, 
Glib-gabbet,  smooth  and  ready  in  speech. 

Glint,  to  peep. 

Glinted,  peeped. 

Glintin,  peeping. 

Gloamin , the  twilight. 

Glovrr,  to  stare,  to  look ; a stare,  a look. 

Glowred,  looked,  stared. 

Glunsh,  a frown,  a sour  look. 

Goavan,  looking  round  with  a strange,  inquiring  garej 
staring  stupidly. 

Gowan,  the  flower  of  the  wild  daisy,  hawk-weed,  &©. 
Gowany,  daisied,  abounding  with  daisies. 

Gowd , gold. 

Gowff. , the  game  of  Golf;  to  strike  as  the  bat  does  lh» 
ball  at  golf. 

Gowff'd , struck. 

Gowk,  a cuckoo ; a term  of  contempt. 

Gowl,  to  howl. 

Grane , or  grain,  a groan ; to  groan. 

Grain'd  and  grunted , groaned  and  granted. 

Graining , groaning. 

Graip,  a pronged  instrument  for  cleaning  stables. 
Graith,  accoutrements,  furniture,  dress,  gear. 
Grannie,  grandmother. 

Grape , to  grope. 

Graph , groped. 

Grat,  wept,  shed  tears. 

Great,  intimate,  familiar. 

Gree,  to  agree  ; to  bear  the  gree , to  be  decidedly  vtelos. 
Gree't,  agreed. 

Greet , to  shed  tears,  to  weep. 

Greetin , crying,  weeping. 

Grippet,  catched,  seized. 

Groat , to  get  the  whistle  of  one's  groat,  to  play  a losing 
game. 

Gronsome , loathsomely,  grim. 

Grozet,  a gooseberry. 

Grumph , a grunt;  to  grunt. 

Grumphie,  a sow. 

Grind,  ground. 

Grunstane,  a grindstone. 

Gruntle , the  phiz ; a grunting  noise. 

Grunzie,  mouth. 

Grushie,  thick;  of  thriving  growth. 

Gude,  the  Supreme  Being ; good. 

Guid,  good. 

Guid-moming,  good  morrow. 

Guid-e'en,  good  evening. 

Guidman  and  guidwife,  the  master  and  mistress  of  the 
house ; young  guidman,  a man  newly  married. 
Guid-willie , liberal ; cordial. 

G aid-father,  guid-mothcr,  father-in-law,  and  mother- 
in-law. 


GLOSSARY 


145 


Gully,  or  guUie,  a large  knife. 

Gumlie , muddy. 

Gusty,  tasteful. 

II. 

HA',  hall. 

Ha'- Bible,  the  great  Bible  that  lies  in  the  hall. 

Hae,  to  have. 

Haen , had,  the  participle. 

Haet,Jient  haet.  a petty  oath  of  negation;  nothing. 
Hafftt.  the  temple,  the  side  of  the  head. 

Hafflins,  nearly  half,  partly. 

Hag.  a scar  or  gulf  in  mosses,  and  moors. 

Haggis , a kind  of  pudding  boiled  in  the  stomach  of  a 
cow  or  sheep. 

Hain.  to  spare,  to  save. 

Haiti' d , spared. 

Hairst , harvest. 

Haith.  a petty  oath. 

Haivers.  nonsense,  speaking  without  thought. 

Hal\  or  hald.  an  abiding  place. 

Hale,  whole,  tight,  healthy. 

Haly,  holy. 

Hame.  home. 

Hallan,  a particular  partition-wall  in  a cottage,  or 
more  properly  a seat  of  turf  at  the  outside. 
Hallowmas,  Hallow-eve.  the  31st  of  October. 

Hamely,  homely,  affable. 

Han’,  or  hatin',  hand. 

Hap,  an  outer  garment,  mantle,  plaid,  &c.,  to  wrap, 
to  cover ; to  hop. 

Happer,  a hopper. 

Happing,  hopping. 

Hap  step  an’  loup.  hop  skip  and  leap. 

Harkit , hearkened. 

Ham,  very  coarse  linen. 

Hash,  a fellow  that  neither  knows  how  to  dress  nor 
act  with  propriety. 

Hastil , hastened. 

Haud,  to  hold. 

Hatighs.  low  lying,  rich  lands;  valleys. 

Haurl.  to  drag;  to  peel. 

Haurlin,  peeling. 

Haverel,  a half-witted  person  ; half-witted. 

Havins,  good  manners,  decorum,  good  sense. 

Hatvkie.  a cow,  properly  one  with  a while  face. 
Heapit,  heaped. 

Healsome,  healthful,  wholesome. 

Hearse , hoarse. 

Hear'l,  hear  it. 

Heather,  heath. 

Hech ! oh  ! strange. 

Hecht.  promised ; to  foretell  something  that  is  to  he  got 
or  given;  foretold;  the  thing  foretold  ; offered. 

Heckle,  a board,  in  which  are  fixed  a number  of  sharp 
pins,  used  in  dressing  hemp,  flax,  &.c. 

Heeze,  to  elevate,  to  raise. 

Helm,  the  rudder  or  helm. 

Herd , to  tend  flocks;  one  who  tends  flocks. 

Herrin,  a herring. 

Herry , to  plunder;  most  properly  to  plunder  birds’ 
nests. 

Herryment,  plundering,  devastation. 

Hersel,  herself;  also  a herd  of  cattle,  of  any  sort. 

Het,  hot. 

Heugh,  a crag,  a coalpit. 
f filch,  a hobble  ; to  halt, 

Hilchin,  halting 
Himsel,  himself. 

Hiney,  honey. 

Hing.  to  hang. 

Hirple,  to  walk  crazily,  to  creep. 

Hissel,  so  many  cattle  as  one  person  can  attend. 
Histie,  dry;  chapped  ; barren. 

Hitch,  a loop,  a knot. 

Hizzie,  a hussy,  a young  girl. 

Hoddin,  the  motion  of  a sage  countryman  riding  on  a 
cart-horse ; humble. 

Hog-score,  a kind  of  distance  line,  in  curling,  drawn 
across  the  rink. 

Hog-shouther,  a kind  of  horse  play,  by  justling  with 
the  shoulder  ; to  justle. 

Hool.  outer  skin  or  case,  a nut-shell;  a peas-cod. 
Hoolie,  slowly,  leisurely. 

Hoolie!  take  leisure,  stop. 

Hoard,  a hoard ; to  hoard. 

Hoordit,  hoarded. 


Horn,  a spoon  made  of  horn. 

Jfornie.  one  of  the  many  names  of  the  devil. 

Host,  or  hoast,  to  cough ; a cough. 

Hostin,  coughing. 

Hosts,  coughs. 

Hatch'd,  turned  topsyturvy;  blended,  mixed. 
Houglnnagandie,  fornication. 

Houlet,  an  owl. 

Housie,  diminutive  of  house. 

Hove,  to  heave,  to  swell. 

Hov'd,  heaved,  swelled. 

Howdie , a midwife. 

Howe,  hollow ; a hollow  or  dell. 

Howebackit,  sunk  in  the  back,  spoken  of  a horse,  See 
Howff,  a tippling  house ; a house  of  resort. 

Howk , to  dig. 

Howkil,  digged. 

Howkin,  digging. 

Howlel,  an  owl. 

Hoy,  to  urge. 

Hoy’t , urged. 

Hoyse , to  pull  upwards. 

Hoyle , to  amble  crazily. 

Hughoc , diminutive  of  Hugh. 

Hurcheon,  a hedgehog. 

Hurdies,  the  loins;  the  crupper. 

Hush  ion,  a cushion. 

I. 

r,  in, 

Icker,  an  ear  of  corn. 

Ier-oe,  a great-grandchild. 

Ilk,  or  ilka,  each,  every. 

IU-wittie,  ill-natured,  malicious,  niggardly. 

Ingine,  genius,  ingenuity. 

Ingle,  fire ; fire-place. 

Ise,  I shall  or  will. 

Ither , other;  one  another. 

J. 

JAB,  jade;  also  a familiar  term  among  country  folk* 
for  a giddy  young  girl. 

Jauk,  to  dally,  to  trifle. 

Jaukin,  trifling,  dallying. 

Jaup,  a jerk  of  water;  to  jerk  as  agitated  water. 

Jaw.  coarse  raillery ; to  pour  out;  to  shut,  to  jerk  a* 
water. 

Jerkinet , a jerkin,  or  short  gown. 

Jillet,  ajilt,  a giddy  girl. 

Jimp,  to  jump  ; slender  in  the  waist ; handsome. 
Jimps,  easy  stays. 

Jink,  to  dodge,  to  turn  a corner;  a sudden  turning;  a 
corner. 

Jinker , that  turns  quickly  ; a gay,  sprightly  girl ; a wag. 
Jinkin,  dodging. 

Jirk , a jerk. 

Jocleleg,  a kind  of  knife. 

Jouk,  to  stoop,  to  bow  the  head. 

Jow,  tojow,  a verb  which  includes  both  the  swinging 
motion  and  pealing  sound  of  a large  hell. 

Jundie , to  justle. 


KAE,  a daw. 

Kail,  colewort;  a kind  of  broth. 

Kail-runt,  the  stem  of  colewort. 

Kain.  fowls.  &c.,  paid  as  rent  by  a farmer. 

Kebbuck , a cheese. 

Keckle,  to  giggle;  to  titter. 

Keek,  a peep,  to  peep. 

Kelpies,  a sort  of  mischievous  spirits,  said  to  haunt 
^fords  and  ferries  at  night,  especially  in  storms. 

Ken,  to  know ; kend  or  Lenn’d,  knew. 

Kennin,  a small  matter. 

Kenspeckle,  well  known,  easily  known. 

Ket,  matted,  hairy;  a fleece  of  wool. 

Kill , to  truss  up  the  clothes. 

Kimmer.  a young  girl,  a gossip. 

Kin,  kindred;  kin',  kind.  adj. 

King's-hood,  a certain  part  of  the  entrails  of  an  ox,  See. 
Kintra,  country. 

Kintra  cooser.  country  stallion. 

Kirn,  the  harvest  supper;  a churn. 

Kirsen,  to  christen,  or  baptize. 

Kist.  a chest ; a shop  counter. 

Kitchen , anything  that  eats  with  bread;  to  serve  for 
soup,  gravy,  &c. 


146 


GLOSSARY 


Kith,  kindred. 

Kittle , to  tickle;  ticklish  ; lively,  apt 
Kittlin,  a young  cat. 

Kiuttle,  to  cuddle. 

Kiuttlin,  cuddling. 

Knaggie,  like  knags . or  points  of  rocks. 

Knap , to  strike  smartly,  a smart  blow. 

Knapp  in-hammer,  a hammer  for  breaking  stones. 
Knowe,  a small  round  hillock. 

Knurl,  a dwarf. 

Kye,  cows. 

Kyle,  a district  in  Ayrshire. 

Kyte,  the  belly. 

Kythe,  to  discover;  to  show  one’s  self. 

L. 

LADDIE,  diminutive  of  lad. 

JLaggen,  the  angle  between  the  side  and  bottom  of  a 
wooden  dish. 

Laigh , low. 

Lairing , wading,  and  sinking  in  snow,  mud,  &c. 

Laith , loath. 

Laithfu bashful,  sheepish. 

Lallans , the  Scottish  dialect  of  the  English  language. 
Lambie , diminutive  of  lamb. 

Lampit , a kind  of  shell-fish,  a limpit. 

Lan',  land;  estate. 

Lane,  lone ; my  lane  thy  lane , See.,  myself  alone,  &c. 
Lanely,  lonely. 

Lang,  long ; to  think  lang,  to  long,  to  weary. 

Lap,  did  leap. 

Lave,  the  rest,  the  remainder,  the  others. 

Laverock,  the  lark. 

Lawin , shot,  reckoning,  bill. 

Latvian,  lowland. 

Lea'e , to  leave. 

Leal,  loyal,  true,  faithful. 

Lea-rig,  grassy  ridge. 

Lear,  (pronounce  lare,)  learning. 

Lee-lang,  live-long. 

Leesome , pleasant. 

Leeze-me,  a phrase  of  congratulatory  endearment ; I am 
happy  in  thee,  or  proud  of  thee. 

Leister , a three-pronged  dart  for  striking  fish. 

Jjeugh,  did  laugh. 
lA.uk,  a look ; to  look. 

Libbet , gelded. 

Lift,  the  sky. 

Lightly , sneeringly ; to  sneer  at. 

Lilt,  a ballad ; a tune ; to  sing. 

Limmer . a kept  mistress,  a strumpet. 

Limp't , limped,  hobbled. 

Link,  to  trip  along. 

Linkin , tripping. 

Linn,  a water-fall ; a precipice. 

Lint,  flax ; lint  i'  the  bell,  flax  in  flower. 

Lintwhite,  a linnet. 

Loan , or  loanin , the  place  of  milking. 

Jjoof,  the  palm  of  the  hand. 

Loot,  did  let. 

Looves , plural  of  loof. 

Loun,  a fellow,  a ragamuffin ; a woman  of  easy  virtue. 
Loup,  jump,  leap. 

Lowe,  a flame. 

Lowin,  flaming. 

Lowrie,  abbreviation  of  Lawrence. 

Lowse,  to  loose. 

Jjows'd , loosed. 

Lug,  the  ear;  a handle. 

Lugget , having  a handle. 

Luggie,  a small  wooden  dish  with  a handle. 

Lurn,  the  chimney. 

Lunch,  a large  piece  of  cheese,  flesh,  &c. 

Lunt,  a column  of  smoke ; to  smoke. 

Luntin,  smooking. 

Lyart,  of  a mixed  color,  gray. 

M. 

MA  E,  more. 

Mair,  more. 

Maist , most,  almost. 

Maistly,  mostly. 

Mak,  to  make. 

Makin,  making. 

Mailen , a farm. 

Mallie,  Molly. 

Mang,  among. 


Manse,  the  parsonage  house,  where  the  minister  lives. 
Manteele,  a mantle. 

Mark,  marks,  (This  and  several  other  nouns  which  in 
English  require  an  s,  to  form  the  plural,  are  in  Scotch, 
like  the  words  sheep,  deer,  the  same  in  both  numbers.) 
Marled,  variegated;  spotted. 

Mar’s  year,  the  year  1715. 

Mashlum,  rheslin,  mixed  corn. 

Mask , to  mash,  as  malt,  &c. 

Maskin-pat , a tea-pot. 

Maud,  maad,  a plaid  worn  by  shepherds,  &c. 

Maukin,  a hare. 

Maun,  must. 

Mavis,  the  thrush. 

Maw,  to  mow. 

Mawin,  mowing. 

Meere,  a mare. 

Meikle,  meickle,  much. 

Melancholious , mournful. 

Melder,  corn,  or  grain  of  any  kind,  sent  to  the  mill  to 
be  ground. 

Mell,  to  meddle.  Also  a mailer  for  pounding  barley 
in  a stone  trough. 

Melvie,  to  soil  with  meal. 

Men',  to  mend. 

Mense,  good  manners,  decorum. 

Menseless,  ill-bred,  rude,  impudent. 

Messin,  a small  dog. 

Midden,  a dunghill. 

Midden-hole,  a gutter  at  the  bottom  of  a dunghill. 

Mim,  prim,  affectedly  meek. 

Min',  mind;  resemblance. 

Mind't,  mind  it;  resolved,  intending. 

Minnie,  mother,  dam. 

Mirk,  mirkest,  dark,  darkest. 

Misca to  abuse,  to  call  names. 

Misca'd,  abused. 

Mislear'd,  mischievous,  unmannerly. 

Misteulc,  mistook. 

Mither,  a mother. 

Mixtie-maxlie , confusedly  mixed. 

Moistify,  to  moisten. 

Many,  or  monie , many. 

Mools,  dust,  earth,  the  earth  of  the  grave.  To  rake  <’ 
the  mools  ; to  lay  in  the  dust. 

Moop,  to  nibble  as  a sheep. 

Moorlan',  of  or  belonging  to  moors. 

Morn,  the  next  day,  to-morrow. 

Mou,  the  mouth. 

Moudiwort,  a mole. 

Mousie,  diminutive  of  mouse. 

Muckle,  or  mickle,  great,  big,  much. 

Musie,  diminutive  of  muse. 

Muslin-kail,  broth,  composed  simply  of  water,  shelled- 
barley,  and  greens. 

Mutchkin,  an  English  pint. 

My  set,  myself. 

' N. 

NA,  no,  not,  nor. 

Nae , no,  not  any. 

Naething , or  naithing,  nothing. 

Naig,  a horse. 

Nane,  none. 

Nappy,  ale ; to  be  tipsy. 

Negleckit,  neglected. 

Neuk,  a nook. 

Niest,  next. 

Nieve,  the  fist. 

Nievefu',  handfull. 

Niff  ex,  an  exchange ; to  exchange,  to  barter. 

Niger,  a negro. 

Nine-tail' d-cat,  a hangman’s  whip. 

Nit,  a nut. 

Norland,  of  or  belonging  to  the  north. 

Notic't,  noticed. 

Nowte,  black  cattle. 

O. 

O’,  of. 

Ochels , name  of  mountains. 

O haith,  O faith ! an  oath. 

Ony,  or  onie,  any. 

Or,  is  often  used  for  ere,  before. 

Ora,  or  orra,  supernumerary,  that  can  be  spared. 

O't,  of  it. 

Ourie,  shivering;  drooping. 


GLOSSARY. 


147 


Ours  el.  or  ourself,  ourselves. 

Outlers.  cuttle  not  housed. 

Ower,  over ; too. 

Ower-hip.  a way  of  fetching  a blow  with  the  hammer 
over  the  arm. 

P. 

P.4CX.  intimate,  familiar;  twelve  stone  of  wool. 
Painch , paunch. 

Paitriclc , a partridge. 

Pang , to  cram. 

Parle,  speech. 

Parritch,  oatmeal  pudding,  a well  known  Scotch  dish. 
Pat.  did  put ; a pot. 

Pattle.  or  pettle,  a plough-staff. 

Paughty,  proud,  haughty. 

Fauky , or  paiv/cie,  cunning,  sly. 

Pay't,  paid ; beat. 

Pech.  to  fetch  the  breath  short,  as  in  an  asthma. 
Pechan,  the  crop,  the  stomach. 

Peelin , peeling,  the  rind  of  fruit. 

Pet.  a domesticated  sheep,  See. 

Pettle.  to  cherish;  a plough-staff. 

Philibegs,  short  petticoats  worn  by  the  Highlandmen. 
Phraise , lair  speeches,  flattery ; to  flatter. 

Phraisin , flattery. 

Pibroch , Highland  war  music  adapted  to  the  bagpipe. 
Pickle , a small  quantity. 

Pine,  pain,  uneasiness. 

Pit,  to  put. 

Placad , a public  proclamation. 

Plack,  an  old  Scotch  coin,  the  third  part  of  a Scotch 
penny,  twelve  of  which  make  an  English  penny. 
Plackless,  pennyless,  without  money. 

Plalie , diminutive  of  plate. 

Plew,  or  pleugh , a plough. 

Ptiskie , a trick. 

Poind , to  seize  cattle  or  goods  for  rent,  as  the  laws  of 
Scotland  allow. 

Poortith,  poverty. 

Pou , to  pull. 

Pouk,  to  pluck. 

Poussie,  a hare,  or  cat 
Pout,  a poult,  a chick. 

Pou't,  did  pull. 

Powthery , like  powder. 

Pow,  the  head,  the  skull. 

Pownie,  a little  horse. 

Poielher,  or  pouther,  powder. 

Preen,  a pin. 

Prent , to  print;  print 
Prie,  to  taste. 

Pric'd , tasted. 

Prie/,  proof. 

Prig,  to  cheapen ; to  dispute. 

Priggin,  cheapening. 

Primsie,  demure,  precise. 

Propone,  to  lay  down,  to  propose. 

Pro  coses,  provosts. 

Puddock-stool,  a mushroom,  fungus. 

Pund,  pound ; pounds. 

Pyle, — a pyle  o'  caff,  a single  grain  of  chaff. 

Q. 

QUAT,  to  quit. 

Quak,  to  quake. 

Quey,  a cow  from  one  to  two  years  old. 

R. 

RAGWEED,  the  herb  ragwort. 

Raible,  to  rattle  nonsense. 

Rair,  to  roar. 

Raize,  to  madden,  to  inflame. 

P^am-feezl'd,  fatigued ; overspread. 

Ram-slam,  thoughtless,  forward. 

Raploch.  ( properly ) a coarse  cloth ; but  used  as  an  ad- 
noun/or  coarse. 

Rarely,  excellently,  very  well. 

Rash,  a rush ; rash-buss,  a bush  of  rushes. 

Ration,  a rat. 

Raucle,  rash;  stout;  fearless. 

Raught,  reached. 

Raw,  a row. 

Rax,  to  stretch. 

Ream,  cream;  to  cream. 

Reaming,  brimfull,  frothing. 

Reave,  rove. 

Reck,  to  heed 


Rede , counsel ; to  counsel. 

Red-wat-skoA , walking  in  blood  over  the  shoe-tops. 
Red-wud,  stark  mad. 

Ree.  halt-drunk,  fuddled. 

Reek,  smoke. 

Reekin,  smoking. 

Reekit,  smoked ; smoky. 

Remcad,  remedy. 

Requite , requited. 

Rest,  to  stand  restive. 

Restit,  stood  restive;  stunted;  withered. 

Rest  ricked,  restricted. 

Rew,  to  repent,  to  compassionate. 

Rief.  reef,  plenty. 

Rief  randies,  sturdy  beggars. 

Rig,  a ridge. 

Rigwiddic,  rigwoodie,  the  rope  or  chain  that  crosses 
the  saddle  of  a horse  to  support  the  spokes  of  a carl; 
spare,  withered,  sapless. 

Rin,  to  run,  to  melt;  rinnin,  running. 

Rink,  the  course  of  the  stones ; a term  in  curling  on  ice. 
Rip,  a handfull  of  unthreshed  corn. 

Riskit,  made  a noise  like  the  tearing  of  roots. 

Rockin,  spinning  on  the  rock  or  distaff. 

Rood,  stands  likewise  for  the  plural  roods. 

Roon,  a shred,  a border  or  selvage. 

Roose,  to  praise,  to  commend. 

Roosty,  rusty. 

Roun ',  round,  in  the  circle  of  neighborhood. 

Roupet , hoarse,  as  with  a cold. 

Routhie,  plentiful. 

Row,  to  roll,  to  wrap. 

Row  t,  rolled,  wrapped. 

Rowte,  to  low,  to  bellow. 

Rowth,  or  routh,  plenty. 

Rowtin,  lowing. 

Rozet,  rosin. 

Rung , a cudgel. 

Runkled,  wrinkled. 

Runt,  the  stern  of  colewort  or  cabbage. 

Ruth,  a woman’s  name ; the  book  so  called ; sorrow. 
Ryke , to  reach. 

S. 

SAE,  so. 

Saft,  soft. 

Sair,  to  serve ; a sore. 

Sairly , or  sairlie,  sorely. 

Sair'l,  served. 

Sark,  a shirt;  a shift. 

Sarkit,  provided  in  shirts. 

Saugh,  the  willow. 

Saul,  soul. 

Saumont,  salmon. 

Saunl , a saint. 

Saut,  salt,  adj.  salt. 

Saw,  to  saw. 

Sawin,  sowing. 

Sax,  six. 

Scaith,  to  damage,  to  injure ; injury. 

Scar,  a cliff. 

Scaud,  to  scald. 

Scauld,  to  scold. 

Scaur,  apt  to  be  scared. 

Scawl,  a scold ; a termigant. 

Scon,  a cake  of  bread. 

Sconner,  a loathing;  to  loathe. 

Scratch,  to  scream  as  a hen,  partridge,  See. 

Screed , to  tear ; a rent. 

Scrieve,  to  glide  swiftly  along. 

Scrievin,  gleesomely ; swiftly. 

Scrimp,  to  scant. 

Scrimpel , did  scant;  scanty. 

Sit'd,  did  see. 

Seizin,  seizing. 

Set,  self;  a body's  set,  one’s  self  alone. 

Sell't,  did  sell. 

Sen',  to  send. 

Sen't,  I,  See.,  sent,  or  did  send  it;  send  it 
Servan ',  servant. 

Settlin,  settling  ; to  get  a settlin,  to  be  frighted  into 
quietness. 

Sets,  sets  off,  goes  away. 

Shackled,  distorted;  shapeless. 

Shaird , a shred,  a shard. 

Shangan,  a stick  cleft  at  one  end  for  putting  the  tail 
of  a dog,  See.  into,  by  way  of  mischief,  or  to  fright 
en  him  away. 


148 


GLOSSARY. 


Shaver , a humorous  wag;  a barber. 

Shav>,  to  show  ; a small  wood  in  a hollow. 

Sheen , bright,  shining. 

Sheep-shank ; to  think  one's  self  nae  sheepshank , to  be 
conceited. 

Sherra-moor , sheriff-moor,  the  famous  battle  fought  in 
the  rebellion,  A.  D.  1715. 

Shengh,  a ditch,  a trench,  a sluice. 

Shiel,  a shed. 

Shill,  shrill. 

Shog,  a shook ; a push  off  at  one  side. 

Shook  a sho\el. 

Shoon,  shoes. 

Shore , to  offer,  to  threaten. 

Shor'd , offered. 

Shouther,  the  shoulder. 

Shure,  did  shear,  shore. 

Sic,  such. 

Sicker,  sure,  steady. 

Sidelins,  sidelong,  slanting. 

Siller , silver ; money. 

Simmer,  summer. 

Sin,  a son. 

Sin',  since. 

Skaith,  see  scaith. 

Skellum , a worthless  fellow. 

Skelp,  to  strike,  to  slap;  to  walk  with  a smart  trip- 
ping step;  a smart  stroke. 

Skelp ie-limmer,  a reproachful  term  in  female  scolding. 
Sketpin,  stepping,  walking. 

Skiegh , or  Skeigh,  proud,  nice,  highmetlled. 

Skinklin,  a small  portion. 

Skirl,  to  shriek,  to  cry  shrilly. 

Skirling,  shrieking,  crying. 

Skirl't,  shrieked. 

Sklent,  slant;  to  run  aslant,  to  deviate  from  truth. 
Sklented,  ran,  or  hit,  in  an  oblique  direction. 

Skoulh,  freedom  to  converse  without  restraint ; range, 
scope. 

Skriegh,  a scream ; to  scream. 

Sleyrin,  shining;  making  a great  show'. 

Skyte,  force,  very  torcibie  motion. 

Slae,  a sloe. 

Slade,  did  slied. 

Slap,  a gate;  a breach  in  a fence. 

Slaver,  saliva  ; to  emit  saliva. 

Slaiv,  slow’. 

Slee , sly ; sleest,  sliest. 

Sleekil,  sleek  ;.sly. 

Sliddery,  slippery. 

Slype,  to  fall  over,  as  a wet  furrow  from  the  plough. 
Sly  pet,  fell. 

S/na',  small. 

Smtddum,  dust,  powder ; mettle,  sense. 

Smiddy,  a smithy. 

Smoor,  to  smother. 

Smoor'd,  smothered. 

Smoutie , smutty,  obscene,  ugly. 

Smytrie . a numerous  collection  of  small  individuals. 
Snapper,  to  stumble,  a stumble. 

Snash,  abuse,  Billingsgate. 

Snaw , snow;  to  snow. 

Snaw-broo,  melted  snow. 

Snawie,  snowy. 

Sneck,  snick,  the  latch  of  a door. 

Sued,  to  lop,  to  cut  off. 

Sneeshin , snuff 
Sneeshin-miU , a snuff-box. 

Snell,  bitter,  biting. 

Snick-drawing,  trick-contriving,  crafty. 

Snirtle,  to  laugh  restrainedly. 

Snood , a ribbon  for  binding  the  ha;r. 

Snool,  one  whose  spirit  is  broken  with  oppressive 
slavery  ; to  submit  tamely,  to  sneak. 

Snoove,  to  go  smoothly  and  constantly,  to  sneak. 
Snowk,  to  scent  or  snuff,  as  a dog,  <kc. 

Snowkil,  scented,  snuffed. 

Sonsie,  having  sweet  engaging  looks  ; lucky,  jolly. 
Soom,  to  swim. 

Sooth,  truth,  a pretty  oath. 

Sough,  a heavy  sigh,  a sound  dying  on  the  ear. 

Souple,  flexible;  swift. 

Souter,  a shoemaker, 

Sovjens.  a dish  made  of  oatmeal ; the  seeds  of  oatmeal 
soured,  See.,  flummery. 

Sowp,  a spoonfull,  a small  quantity  of  any  thing  liquid. 
Sowth,  to  try  over  a,  time  with  a low  whistle. 


Sowther , solder;  to  solder,  to  cement. 

Spae,  to  prophesy,  to  divine. 

Spaul,  a limb. 

Spairge,  to  dash,  to  soil,  as  with  mire. 

Spaviet.  having  the  spavin. 

Spean , spane , to  wean. 

Speal.  or  spate,  a sweeping  torrent,  after  rain  or  thaw 
Speel,  to  climb. 

Spence,  the  country  parlor. 

Spier,  to  ask.  to  inquire. 

Spier'l,  inquired. 

Splatter,  a splutter,  to  splutter. 

Spleughan.  a tobacco-pouch. 

Splore,  a frolic ; a noise,  riot. 

Sprackle,  sprachle,  to  clamber. 

Sprattle , to  scramble. 

Spreckled , spotted,  speckled. 

Spring,  a quick  air  in  music;  a Scottish  reel. 

Sprit,  a tough-rooted  plant,  something  like  rushes. 
Sprittie,  full  of  spirit. 

Spunk,  fire,  mettle;  wit. 

Spuhkie,  mettlesome,  fiery;  will-o'-wisp,  or  ignis faluus. 
Spurtle,  a stick  used  in  making  oatmeal  pudding  or 
porridge. 

Squad,  a crew’,  a party. 

Squatter,  to  flutter  in  water,  as  a wild  duck,  &c. 
Squaitle,  to  sprawl. 

Squeel,  a scream,  a screech;  to  scream. 

Stacker,  to  stagger. 

Slack,  a rick  of  corn,  hay,  &c. 

Staggie,  the  diminutive  of  stag. 

Stalwart , strong,  slout. 

Stant,  to  stand  ; stan't,  did  stand. 

Stane,  a stone. 

Stang,  an  acute  pain;  a tw'inge;  to  sting. 

Sian/c,  did  stink  ; a pool  of  standing  water. 

Stap.  stop. 

Stark,  stout. 

Startle,  to  run  as  cattle  stung  by  the  gad-fly. 

Staumrel,  a blockhead ; half-witted. 

Statu,  did  steal ; to  surfeit. 

Stech , to  cram  the  belly. 

Stechin,  cramming. 

Sleek,  to  shut ; a stiteh. 

Steer,  to  molest ; to  stir. 

Sleeve,  firm,  compacted. 

Stell,  a still. 

Sten,  to  rear  as  a horse. 

Sten't,  reared. 

Stents,  tribute;  dues  of  any  kind. 

Stey,  steep ; steyest,  steepest. 

Stibble,  stumble ; stibble-rig , the  reaper  in  harvest  who 
takes  the  lead. 

Stick  an'  stow , totally,  altogether. 

Stile,  a crutch;  to  halt,  to  limp 

Stimpart,  the  eighth  part  of  a Winchester  bushel. 

Slirk,  a cow  or  bullock  a year  old. 

Stock,  a plant  or  root  of  colewort,  cabbage,  &c. 

Stockin,  a stocking;  throwing  the  stockin,  when  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  are  put  into  bed,  and  the  candle 
out,  the  former  throws  a stocking  at  random  among 
the  company,  and  the  person  whom  it  strikes  is  the 
next  that  will  be  married. 

Stoiter,  to  stagger,  to  stammer. 

Stooked,  made  up  in  shocks,  as  corn. 

Stoor,  sounding  hollow,  strong,  and  hoarse. 

Slot,  an  ox. 

Sloup,  or  stoiup,  a kind  of  jug  or  dish  with  a handle. 
Stoure,  dust,  more  particularly  dust  in  motion. 

Stowlins,  by  stealth. 

Stown,  stolen. 

Stoyte , to  stumble. 

Slrack , did  strike. 

Strae,  straw ; to  die  a fair  strae  death,  to  die  in  bed. 
Straik.  did  strike. 

Straikit,  stroked. 

Strappan , tall  and  handsome. 

Straught,  straight,  to  straighten. 

Slreek , stretched,  tight;  to  stretch. 

Striddle,  to  straddle. 

Stroan , to  spout,  to  piss. 

Studdie,  an  anvil. 

Stumpie , diminutive  of  stump. 

Strunt.  spirituous  liquor  of  any  kind  ; to  walk  sturdily; 
hull',  sullenness. 

Stuff,  corn  or  pui^e  of  any  kind. 

Sturt,  trouble : to  molest. 


GLOSSARY. 


149 


Sturtin , frighted. 

Sucker , sugar. 

Sud , should. 

Sugh,  the  continued  rushing  noise  of  wind  or  water. 
Sutliron,  southern;  an  old  name  for  the  English  nation. 
Swaird , sward. 

Swall'd , swelled. 

Sicank,  stately,  jolly. <, 

Swankie,  or  sioanker,  a tight  strapping  young  fellow 
org'rl. 

Swap,  an  exchange;  to  barter. 

Swarf. , to  swoon ; a swoon. 

Stool,  did  sweat. 

Swatch , a sample. 

Swats,  drink : good  ale. 

Sweaten , sweating. 

Sweer,  lazy,  averse ; dead-sweer,  extremely  averse. 
Swoor,  swore,  did  swear. 

Swinge,  to  beat;  to  whip. 

Swirl,  a.  curve;  an  eddying  blast,  or  pool;  a knot  in 
wood. 

Swirlie,  knaggie,  full  of  knots. 

Swith , get  away. 

Swither , to  hesitate  in  choice  ; an  irresolute  wavering 
in  choice. 

Syne,  since,  ago;  then. 

T. 

TACKETS , a kind  of  nails  for  driving  into  the  heels 
of  shoes. 

Tae,  a toe ; three- tae’d,  having  three  prongs. 

Tairge , a target. 

Tak,  to  takeT  takin,  taking. 

TamtaUan , the  name  of  a mountain. 

Tangle,  a sea- weed. 

Tap,  the  top. 

Tapetless,  heedless,  foolish. 

Tarrow,  to  murmur  at  one’s  allowance. 

Tarrow’t,  murmured. 

Tarry-breeks,  a sailor. 

Tauld , or  laid,  told. 

Taupie,  a foolish,  thoughtless  young  person. 

Tauted , or  tautie,  matted  together ; spoken  of  hair  or 
wool. 

Tawie,  that  allows  itself  peaceably  to  be  handled  ; 

spoken  of  a horse,  cow,  &c. 

Teat , a small  quantity. 

Teen,  to  provoke;  provocation. 

Tedding,  spreading  after  the  mower. 

Ten-hour’s  bite,  a slight  feed  for  the  horses  while  in  the 
yoke,  in  the  forenoon. 

Tent,  a field-pulpit;  heed,  caution;  to  take  heed;  to 
tend  or  herd  cattle. 

Tentie,  heedful,  caution. 

Tentless,  heedless. 

Teugh,  tough. 

Thack,  thatch ; (hack  an’  rape,  clothing,  necessaries. 
Thae,  these. 

Thairms,  small  guts;  fiddle-strings. 

Thankit,  thanked. 

Theekit,  thatched. 

Thtgilher,  together. 

Themsel,  themselves. 

Thick,  intimate,  familiar. 

Thieveless,  cold,  dry,  spited ; spoken  of  a person’s  de- 
meanor. 

Thir,  these. 

Thirl,  to  thrill. 

Thirled,  thrilled,  vibrated. 

Thole,  to  suffer,  to  endure. 

Thowe,  a thaw;  to  thaw. 

Thowless,  slack,  lazy. 

Thrang,  throng;  a crowd. 

Thrapple,  throat,  windpipe 

Thrace,  twenty-four  sheaves  or  two  shocks  of  corn ; 

a considerable  number. 

Thraw,  to  sprain,  to  twist;  to  contradict 
Thrawin,  twisting,  &c. 

Thravjn,  sprained,  twisted,  contradicted. 

Threap , to  maintain  by  dint  of  assertion. 

Threshin.  thrashing. 

Threleen,  thirteen. 

ThrisUe,  thistle. 

Through,  to  go  on  with  ; to  make  out. 

Throuther,  pell-mell,  confusedly. 

Thud,  to  make  a loud  intermittent  noise. 

Thumpit,  thumped. 


Th  ysel,  thyself. 

TiU’t,  to  it. 

Timtner,  timber. 

Tine,  to  lose;  tint,  lost. 

Tinkler,  a tinker. 

Tint  the  gate,  lost  the  way. 

Tip,  a ram. 

Tippence , twopence. 

Tirl,  to  make  a slight  noise;  to  uncover. 

Tirlin,  uncovering. 

Tither,  the  other. 

Tittle,  to  whisper. 

Tittlin,  whispering. 

Tocher,  marriage  portion. 

Tod,  a fox. 

Toddle,  to  totter,  like  the  walk  of  a child. 

Toddlin , tottering. 

Toom,  empty,  to  empty. 

Toop,  a ram. 

Toun,  a hamlet ; a farm-house. 

Tout,  the  blast  of  a horn  or  trumpet ; to  blow  a horu» 
Sec. 

Tow,  a rope. 

Towmond,  a twelvemonth. 

Towzie,  rough,  shaggy. 

Toy,  a very  old  fashion  of  female  head-dress. 

Toyte.Xo  totter  like  old  age. 

Transmugrify’d , transmigrated,  metamorphosed. 
Trashtrie , trash. 

Trevjs , trowsers. 

Trickie,  full  of  tricks. 

Trig,  spruce,  neat. 

Trimly,  excellently. 

Trow , to  believe. 

Trowth,  truth,  a petty  oath. 

Tryste,  an  appointment;  a fair. 

Trysted,  appointed ; to  tryste,  to  make  an  appointment. 
Try’t,  tried. 

Tug,  raw  hide,  of  which  in  old  times  plough-traces 
were  frequently  made. 

Tulzie,  a quarrel ; to  quarrel,  to  fight. 

Twa.  two. 

Twa-three,  a few. 

’ Twad , it  would. 

Twal,  twelve  ; twal-pennie  worth,  a small  quantity,  a 
penny- wo  rtli. 

N.  H.  One  penny  English  is  12d  Scotch. 

Twin , to  part. 

Tyke,  a dog. 

UNCO,  strange,  uncouth ; very  great,  prodigious. 
Uncos,  news. 

Unkenn’d,  unknown. 

Unsicker,  unsure,  unsteady. 

Unskaith'd,  undamaged,  unhurt. 

Unweeting,  unwittingly,  unknowingly. 

Upo ’,  upon. 

Urchin,  a hedge-hog. 

VAP’RIN,  vaporing. 

Vera,  very. 

Virl,  a ring  round  a column,  &c. 

Vittle,  corn  of  all  kinds,  food. 

W. 

WA’,  wall ; wa’s,  walls. 

Wabster,  a weaver. 

Wad,  would  ; to  bet;  a bet,  a pledge. 

Wadna,  would  not. 

Wae,  wo ; sorrowful. 

Waefu',  woful,  sorrowful,  wailing. 

Waesucks!  or  vjaes-me!  alas!  O the  pity. 

Waft,  the  cross  thread  that  goes  from  the  shuttle  through 
I the  web ; woof. 

Wuir,  to  lay  out,  to  expend. 

Wale,  choice  ; to  choose. 

Wal’d,  chose,  chosen. 

Walie , ample,  large,  jolly ; also  aninterjection  of  dis- 
tress. 

| Wame,  the  belly. 

Wamefu ’,  a belly-full. 

Wanchancie,  unlucky. 

Wanrestfu ’,  restless. 

Wark,  work. 

Wark-lume,  a tool  to  work  with. 

War l,  or  warld,  world. 

| Warlock,  a wizard. 


150 


GLOSSARY, 


Warly,  worldly,  eager  on  amassing  wealth. 

Warrun,  a warrant;  to  warrant. 

Warst,  worst. 

Warsll'd,  or  warsl'd.  wrestled. 

Wastrie,  prodigality. 

Wat,  wet ; I ivat,  I wot,  I know. 

Water-brose,  brose  made  of  meal  and  water  simply, 
without  the  addition  of  milk,  butter,  &c. 

Wattle , a twig,  a wand. 

Wauble,  to  swing,  to  reel. 

Waugh t,  a draught. 

Waukit , thickened  as  fullers  do  cloth. 

Waukrife , not  apt  to  sleep. 

Waur , worse  ; to  worst. 

Waur't,  worsted. 

Wea?i,  or  weanie , a child. 

Wearie,  or  weary  ; many  a weary  body , many  a dif- 
ferent person. 

Weason,  weasand. 

Weaving  the  Stocking.  See  Slocking. 

Wee,  litfle ; wee  things,  little  ones;  wee  bit,  a small 
matter. 

Weel,  well ; weelfare , welfare. 

Weet,  rain,  wetness. 

Weird,  fate. 

We'se,  we  shall. 

Wha,  who. 

Whaizle , to  wheeze. 

Whalpit,  whelped. 

Whang,  a leathern  string;  a piece  of  cheese,  bread, 
&c.,  to  give  the  strappado. 

Whare,  where ; where'er,  wherever. 

Wheep , to  fly  nimbly,  to  jerk  ; penny-wheep,  small  beer. 
Whase,  whose. 

Whatreck,  nevertheless. 

Whid , the  motion  of  a hare,  running  but  not  frighted ; 
a lief. 

Whidden,  running  as  a hare  or  cony. 

IVhigmeleeries , whims,  fancies,  crotchets. 

Whingin,  crying,  complaining,  fretting. 

Whirligigums,  useless  ornaments,  trifling  appendages. 
Whissle,  a whistle ; to  whistle. 

Whisht , silence ; to  hold  one's  whisht , to  be  silent.  O 
Whisk,  to  sweep,  to  lash. 

Whiskit,  lashed. 

W hitter,  a hearty  draught  of  liquor. 

JVhun-stane,  a whin-stone. 

Whyles,  whiles,  sometimes. 

Wi ',  with. 

Wicht , wight,  powerful,  strong ; inventive ; of  a supe- 
rior genius. 

Wick,  to  strike  a stone  in  an  oblique  direction  ; a term 
in  curling. 

Wicker,  willow  (the  smaller  sort.) 

Wiel,  a small  whirlpool. 

Wife,  a diminutive  or  endearing  term  for  wife. 

Wily  art.  bashful  and  reserved ; avoiding  society  or 
appearing  awkward  in  it ; wild,  strange,  timid. 


Wimple,  to  meander. 

Wimpl't,  meandered. 

Wimplin,  waving,  meandering. 

Win.  to  win,  to  winnow. 

Win'l,  winded  as  a bottom  of  varn. 

Win',  wind ; win's,  winds. 

Winna,  will  not. 

Winnock , a window. 

Winsome,  hearty,  vaunted,  gay. 

Wintle,  a staggering  motion;  to  stagger,  to  reel. 

Winze,  an  oath. 

Wiss,  to  wish. 

Withoutten,  without. 

Wizen'd,  hide-bound,  dried,  shrunk. 

Wonner,  a wonder;  a contemptuous  appellation. 

Worn,  dwells. 

Woo',  wool. 

Woo,  to  court,  to  make  love  to. 

W odie , a rope,  more  properly  one  made  of  withes  or 
willows. 

Wooer-bab,  the  garter  knotted  below  the  knee  with  a 
couple  of  loops. 

Wordy , worthy. 

Worset,  worsted. 

Wow,  an  exclamation  of  pleasure  or  wonder. 

Wrack , to  teaze,  to  vex. 

Wraith,  a spirit,  or  ghost ; an  apparition  exactly  like 
a living  person,  whose  appearance  is  said  to*  fore- 
bode the  person’s  approaching  death. 

Wrang,  wrong ; to  wrong. 

Wreeth,  a drifted  heap  of  snow. 

Wurt-mad , distracted. 

Wumble , a wimble. 

Wyle , to  beguile. 

Wyliecoat,  a flannel  vest. 

Wyte.  blame  ; to  blame. 

Y. 

YAD , an  old  mare  ; a worn-out  horse. 

Ye;  this  pronoun  is  frequently  used  for  thou. 

Yearns , longs  much. 

Yearlings,  born  in  the  same  year,  coevals. 

Year  is  used  both  for  singular  and  plural , years. 

Yearn , earn,  an  eagle,  an  ospray. 

Yell,  barren,  that  gives  no  milk, 

Yerk,  to  lash,  to  jerk. 

Yerkit,  jerked,  lashed. 

Yestreen,  yesternight. 

Yett,  a gate,  such  as  is  usually  at  the  entrance  into  a 
farm-yard  or  field. 

Yill , ale. 

Yird,  earth. 

Yokin,  yoking;  a bout. 

Y ont,  beyond. 

Yoursel , yourself. 

Yowe,  a ewe. 

Yowie,  diminutive  of  yowc. 

Yule,  Christmas. 


THE 

LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS, 

WITH 

HIS  GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE; 

ALSO 

CRITICISM  ON  HIS  WRITINGS, 

AND 

OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  SCOTTISH  PEASANTRY, 

BY 


DR.  CURRIE. 


' 


* 


* 


, ' t 


DR.  CURRIE’S  DEDICATION. 


TO 

CAPTAIN  GRAHAM  MOORE 

OF  THE  ROYAL  NAVY. 


When  you  were  stationed  on  our  coast, 
about  twelve  years  ago,  you  first  recom- 
mended to  my  particular  notice  the  poems 
of  the  Ayrshire  ploughman,  whose  works, 
published  for  the  benefit  of  his  widow  and 
children,  I now  present  to  you.  In  a dis- 
tant region  of  the  world,  whither  the  ser- 
vice of  your  country  has  carried  you,  you 
will,  I know,  receive  with  kindness  this 
proof  of  my  regard ; not,  perhaps,  without 
some  surprise  on  finding  that  I have  been 
engaged  in  editing  these  volumes,  nor 
without  some  curiosity  to  know  how  I was 
qualified  for  such  an  undertaking.  These 
points  I will  briefly  explain. 

Having  occasion  to  make  an  excursion 
to  the  county  of  Dumfries,  in  the  summer 
of  1792,  I had  there  an  opportunity  of  see- 
ing and  conversing  with  Burns.  It  has 
been  my  fortune  to  know  some  men  of  high 
reputation  in  literature,  as  well  as  in  pub- 
lic life,  but  never  to  meet  any  one  who,  in 
the  course  of  a single  interview,  communi- 
cated to  me  so  strong  an  impression  of  the 
force  and  versatility  of  his  talents.  After 
this  I read  the  poems,  then  published,  with 
greater  interest  and  attention,  and  with  a 
full  conviction  that,  extraordinary  as  they 
are,  they  afford  but  an  inadequate  proof  of 
the  powers  of  their  unfortunate  author. 

Four  years  afterwards,  Burns  terminated 
his  career.  Among  those  whom  the  charms 
of  his  genius  had  attached  to  him,  was  one 
with  whom  I have  been  bound  in  the  ties 
of  friendship  from  early  life — Mr.  John 
Syme,  of  Ryedale.  This  gentleman,  after 
the  death  of  Burns,  promoted  with  the  ut- 
most zeal  a subscription  for  the  support  of 
the  widow  and  children,  to  which  their  re- 
lief from  immediate  distress  is  ascribed  ; 
and  in  conjunction  with  other  friends  of 
this  virtuous  and  destitute  family,  he  pro- 
jected the  publication  of  these  volumes  for 
their  benefit,  by  which  the  return  of  want 
might  be  prevented  or  prolonged. 


To  this  last  undertaking  an  editor  and 
biographer  was  wanting,  and  Mr.  Syme’s 
modesty  opposed  a barrier  to  his  assuming 
an  office,  for  which  he  was  in  other  respects 
peculiarly  qualified.  On  this  subject  he 
consulted  me ! and  with  the  hope  of  sur- 
mounting his  objections,  I offered  him  my 
assistance,  but  in  vain.  Endeavors  were 
used  to  procure  an  editor  in  other  quarters 
without  effect.  The  task  was  beset  with 
considerable  difficulties,  and  men  of  estab- 
lished reputation  naturally  declined  an  un- 
dertaking, to  the  performance  of  which,  it 
was  scarcely  to  be  hoped  that  general  ap- 
probation could  be  obtained  by  any  exer- 
tion of  judgment  or  temper. 

To  such  an  office,  my  place  of  residence, 
my  accustomed  studies,  and  my  occupa- 
tions, were  certainly  little  suited  ; but  the 
partiality  of  Mr.  Syme  thought  me  in  other 
respects  not  unqualified  ; and  his  solicita- 
tions, joined  to  those  of  our  excellent  friend 
and  relation,  Mrs.  Dunlop,  and  of  other 
friends  of  the  family  of  the  poet,  I have 
not  been  able  to  resist.  To  remove  diffi- 
culties which  would  otherwise  have  been 
insurmountable,  Mr.  Syme  and  Mr.  Gilbert 
Burns  made  a journey  to  Liverpool,  where 
they  explained  and  arranged  the  manu- 
scripts, and  selected  such  as  seemed  wor- 
thy of  the  press.  From  this  visit  I derived 
a degree  of  pleasure  which  has  compensa- 
ted much  of  my  labor.  I had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  renewing  my  personal  intercourse 
with  a much  valued  friend,  and  of  forming 
an  acquaintance  with  a man,  closely  allied 
to  Burns  in  talents  as  well  as  in  blood,  in 
whose  future  fortunes  the  friends  of  virtue 
will  not,  I trust,  be  uninterested. 

The  publication  of  these  volumes  has 
been  delayed  by  obstacles  which  these  gen- 
tlemen could  neither  remove  nor  foresee, 
and  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  enumer- 
ate. At  length  the  task  is  finished.  If  the 
part  which  I have  taken  shall  serve  the  in- 


154 


DR.  CURRIE’S  DEDICATION. 


terest  of  the  family,  and  receive  the  appro- 
bation of  good  men,  I shall  have  my  recom- 

f tense.  The  errors  into  which  I have  fal- 
en  are  not,  I hope,  very  important,  and 
they  will  be  easily  accounted  for  by  those 
who  know  the  circumstances  under  which 
this  undertaking  has  been  performed.  Gen- 
erous minds  will  receive  the  posthumous 
works  of  Burns  with  candor,  and  even  par- 
tiality, as  the  remains  of  an  unfortunate 
man  of  genius,  published  for  the  benefit  of 
his  family — as  the  stay  of  the  widow  and 
the  hope  of  the  fatherless. 

To  secure  the  suffrages  of  such  minds, 
all  topics  are  omitted  in  the  writings,  and 
avoided  in  the  life  of  Burns,  that  have  a 
tendency  to  awaken  the  animosity  of  party. 
In  perusing  the  following  volumes,  no  of- 
fence Avill  be  received,  except  by  those  to 
whom  even  the  natural  erect  aspect  of 
genius  is  offensive — characters  that  will 
scarcely  be  found  among  those  who  are  ed- 
ucated to  the  profession  of  arms.  Such 
men  do  not  court  situations  of  danger,  or 
tread  in  the  paths  of  glory.  They  will  not 
be  found  in  your  service,  which,  in  our  own 
days,  emulates  on  another  element  the  su- 


perior fame  of  the  Macedonian  phalanx,  or 
of  the  Roman  legion,  and  which  has,  late- 
ly, made  the  shores  of  Europe  add  Africa 
resound  with  the  shouts  of  victory,  from 
the  Texel  to  the  Tagus,  and  from  the  Ta- 
gus to  the  Nile ! 

The  works  of  Burns  will  be  received  fa- 
vorably by  one  who  stands  in  the  foremost 
rank  of  this  noble  service,  and  who  de- 
serves his  station.  On  the  land  or  on  the 
sea,  I know  no  man  more  capable  of  judging 
of  the  character  or  of  the  writings  of  this 
original  genius.  Homer,  and  Shakspeare, 
and  Ossian,  cannot  always  occupy  your 
leisure.  These  volumes  may  sometimes 
engage  your  attention,  while  the  steady 
breezes  of  the  tropic  swell  your  sails,  and 
in  another  quarter  of  the  earth  charm  you 
with  the  strains  of  nature,  or  awake  in 
your  memory  the  scenes  of  your  early 
days.  Suffer  me  to  hope,  that  they  may 
sometimes  recall  to  your  mind  the  friend 
who  addresses  you,  and  who  bids  you— 
most  affectionately — adieu  ! 

J.  CURRIE. 

Liverpool , Is/  May , 1800. 


CONTENTS 


TO  THE 

GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE,  ETC. 

— ==©§==— 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 

ON  THE  CHARACTER  AND  CONDITION  OF  THE  SCOTTISH 
PEASANTRY. 

Effects  of  the  legal  establishment  of  parochial 
schools.  159. — Of  the  church  establishment,  ib. — 
Of  the  absence  of  poor  laws,  160. — Of  Scottish  mu- 
sic and  national  songs,  161. — Of  the  laws  respecting 
marriage  and  incontinence,  163. — Observations  on 
the  domestic  and  national  attachments  of  the 
Scots, 163 

LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

Narrative  of  his  infancy  and  youth,  by  himself,  165 — 
Narrative  on  the  same  subject,  by  his  brother,  and 
by  Mr.  Murdoch  of  London,  his  teacher,  169. — Other 
particulars  of  Burns  while  resident  in  Ayrshire, 
174. — History  of  Burns  while  resident  in  Edinburgh, 
including  Letters  to  the  Editor  from  Mr.  Stewart 
and  Dr.  Adair,  180. — History  of  Burns  while  on  the 
farm  at  Eilisland,  in  Dumfries-shire,  194. — History 
of  Burns  while  resident  at  Dumfries,  195. — His  last 
Illness,  Death  and  Character,  with  general  Reflec- 
tions,   200 

Memoir  respecting  Burns,  by  a Lady. 205 

Criticism  on  the  Writings  of  Burns,  including  obser- 
vations on  poetry  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  and  some 

remarks  on  Scottish  literature, 207 

GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 

LETTERS. 

No.  Page. 

1.  To  Mr.  John  Murdoch,  Burns’s  former  teach- 

er ; giving  an  account  of  his  present  studies, 
and  temper  of  mind, 223 

2.  Extract  from  MSS.  Observations  on  various 

subjects, 224 

3.  To  Mr.  Aiken.  Written  under  distress  of 

mind, 225 

4.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Thanks  for  her  notice, 226 

5.  To  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair.  Enclosing  a poem 

on  Miss  A , 227 

6.  Proclamation  in  the  Name  of  the  Muses, 227 

7.  Dr.  Blacklock  to  the  Rev.G.  Lowrie.  Encour- 

aging the  bard  to  visit  Edinburgh  and  print 
a new  edition  of  his  poems  there, 227 

8.  From  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lowrie.  Advice  to  the 

Bard  how  to  conduct  himself  in  Edinburgh,  228 

9.  To  Mr.  Chalmers.  Praise  of  Miss  Burnet  of 

Monboddo, 228 

10.  To  the  Earl  of  Eglington.  Thanks  for  his  pat- 

ronage.  228 

11.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Account  of  his  situation  in 

Edinburgh, 229 

12.  To  Dr.  Moore.  Grateful  acknowledgments 

of  Dr.  M’s  notice  of  him  in  his  letters  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop, 229 

13.  From  Dr.  Moore.  In  answer  to  the  foregoing 

and  enclosing  a sonnet  on  the  Bard  by  Miss 
Williams, 230 

14.  To  the  Rev.  G.  Lowrie.  Thanks  for  advice 


No.  Page. 

— reflections  on  Ins  situation — compliments 
paid  to  Miss  L , by  Mr.  Mackenzie 230 

15.  To  Dr.  Moore  230 

16.  From  Dr.  Moore.  Sends  the  Bard  a present 

of  his  “ View  of  Society  and  Manners,”  &c.  231 

17.  To  the  Earl  of  Glencairn.  Grateful  acknowl- 

edgments of  kindness,  231 

18.  To  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  In  reply  to  a letter  of 

advice, 231 

19.  Extract  concerning  the  monument  erected  for 

Fergusson  by  our  Poet,  232 

20.  To , Accompanying  the  foregoing, 232 

21.  Extract  from . Good  advice, 233 

22.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Respecting  his  prospects  on 

leaving  Edinburgh, 233 

23.  To  the  same.  On  the  same  subject, 234 

24.  To  Dr.  Moore.  On  the  same  subject, 234 

25.  Extract  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reply  to  Criticisms.  234 

26.  To  the  *Rev.  Dr.  Blair.  Written  on  leaving 

Edinburgh.  Thanks  for  his  kindness, 234 

27.  From  Dr.  Blair.  In  reply  to  the  preceding  • • 2:35 

28.  From  Dr.  Moore.  Criticism  and  good  advice,  235 

29.  To  Mr.  W alker,  at  Blair  of  Athole.  Enclosing 

the  Humble  Petition  of  Bruar  water  to  the 
Duke  of  Athole, 236 

30.  To  Mr.  G.  Burns.  Account  of  his  Tour  through 

the  Highlands, 236 

31.  From  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre.  Enclosing 

Latin  Inscriptions  with  translations,  and  the 
Tale  of  Omeron  Cameron, 236 

32.  Mr.  Ramsay  to  the  Rev.  W.  Young.  Introdu- 

cing our  Poet, 238 

33.  Mr.  Ramsay  to  Dr  Blacklock.  Anecdotes  of 

Scottish  Songs  for  our  Poet, 238 

34.  From  Mr.  John  Murdoch  in  London.  In  an- 

swer to  No.  I. 239 

35.  From  Mr. , Gordon  Castle.  Acknowl- 

edging a song  sent  to  Lady  Charlotte  Gor- 
don,   239 

36.  From  the  Rev.  J.  Skinner.  Some  Account  of 

Scottish  Poems, 239 

37.  From  Mrs.  Rose.  Enclosing  Gaelic  Songs, 

with  the  music, 249 

38.  To  the  Earl  of  Glencairn.  Requests  his  assist- 

ance in  getting  into  the  Excise, 241 

39.  To , Dalrynjple,  Esq.  Congratulation  on 

his  becoming  a poet.  Praise  of  Lord  Glen- 
cairn,   241 

40.  To  Sir  John  Whitefoord.  Thanks  for  friend- 

ship. Reflections  on  the  poetical  character  241 

41.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Written  on  recovery  from 

sickness, 242 

42.  Extract  to  the  same.  Defence  of  himself, 242 

43.  To  the  Same. — who  had  heard  that  he  had  ridi- 

culed her,  242 

44.  To  Mr.  Cleghorn.  Mentioning  his  having 

composed  the  first  stanza  of  the  Chevalier’s 
Lament, 242 

45.  From  Mr.  Cleghorn.  In  reply  to  the  above. 

The  Chevalier’s  Lament  in  full,  in  a note.  • • 243 

46.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Giving  an  account  of  his 

prospects, 243 

47.  From  the  Rev.  J.  Skinner.  Enclosing  two 

Cl  55; 


156 


CONTENTS 


No.  Page. 

songs,  one  by  himself,  the  other  by  a Buchan 
ploughman  ; the  songs  printed  at  large, 243 

48.  To  Professor  D.  Stuart.  Thanks  for  his  friend- 

ship,  244 

49.  Extract  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Remarks  on  Dry- 

den’s  Virgil,  and  Pope’s  Odyssey, 244 

50.  To  the  same.  General  Reflections, 245 

51.  To  the  Same,  at  Mr.  Dunlop’s,  Haddington. 

Account  of  his  marriage, 245 

52.  To  Mr.  P.  Hill.  With  a present  of  cheese,  - • • 245 

53.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  With  lines  on  a hermitage,  246 

54.  To  the  Same.  Farther  account  of  his  marriage  247 

55.  To  the  Same.  Reflections  on  human  life, 247 

56.  To  R.  Graham,  Esq.  of  Fintry.  A petition  in 


verse  for  a situation  in  the  Excise,  248 

57.  To  Mr.  P.  Hill.  Criticism  on  a poem,  entitled, 

• An  Address  to  Loch-Lomond,’ 248 

58.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  at  Moreham  Mains, 249 

59.  To  ****.  Defence  of  the  Family  of  the  Stuarts. 

Baseness  of  insulting  fallen  greatness, 249 

60.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  With  the  Soldier’s  song — 

“ Go  fetch  to  me  a pint  of  wine,” 250 

61.  To  Miss  Davies,  a young  Lady,  who  had 

heard  lie  had  been  making  a ballad  on  her, 
enclosing  that  ballad, 251 

62.  From  Mr.  G.  Burns.  Reflections  suggested 

by  New  Year’s  Day, 251 

63.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reflections  suggested  by 

New  Year’s  Day, 251 

64.  To  Dr.  Moore.  Account  of  his  situation  and 

prospects, 252 

65.  To  Professor  D.  Stewart.  Enclosing  poems 

for  his  criticism, 253 

66.  To  Bishop  Geddes.  Account  of  his  situation 

and  prospects,  253 

67.  From  the  Rev.  P.  Carfrae.  Requesting  ad- 

vice as  to  the  publishing  Mr.  Mylne’s  poems,  254 

68.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reflections  after  a visit  to 

Edinburgh, 254 

69.  To  the  Rev.  P.  Carfrae.  In  answer  to  No.  67,  255 

70.  To  Dr.  Moore.  Enclosing  a poem, 255 

71.  To  Mr.  Hill.  Apostrophe  to  Frugality, 255 

72.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  With  a sketch  of  an  epistle 

in  verse  to  the  Right  Hon.  C.  J.  Fox, 256 

73.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Witii  the  first  draught 

of  the  poem  on  a wounded  Hare, 256 

74.  From  Dr.  Gregory.  Criticism  of  the  poem  on 

a wounded  Hare, 257 

75.  To  Mr.  M’Auley  of  Dumbarton.  Account  of 

his  situation, • 257 

76.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reflections  on  Religion,- • • 258 

77.  From  Dr.  Moore.  Good  advice, 258 

78.  From  Miss.  J.  Little.  A poetess  in  humble 

life,  with  a poem  in  praise  of  our  Bard, 259 

79.  From  Mr.  ******.  Some  account  of  Fergusson  259 

80.  To  Mr.  ******  In  answer, 260 

81.  To  Miss  Williams.  Enclosing  a criticism  on 

a poem  of  hers, 260 

82.  From  Miss  W.  In  reply  to  the  foregoing 261 

81.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Praise  of  Zeluco, 261 

84.  From  Dr.  Blacklock.  An  epistle  in  verse,  - • • 261 

85.  To  Dr.  Blacklock.  Poetical  reply  to  the  above,  262 

86.  To  R.  Graham,  Esq.  Enclosing  some  elec- 

tioneering ballads, 262 

87.  To  Mrs  Dunlop.  Serious  and  interesting  re- 
reflections,  262 

88.  To  Sir  John  Sinclair.  Account  of  a book  so- 

ciety among  the  farmers  in  Nithsdale, 263 

89.  To  Charles  Sharpe,  Esq.  of  Hoddam.  Under 

a fictitious  signature,  enclosing  a ballad,  - • 264 

90.  To  Mr.  G.  Burns.  With  a prologue  spoken 

on  the  Dumfries  Theatre, 264 

91.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Some  account  of  Falconer, 

author  of  the  Shipwreck, 264 

92.  From  Mr.  Cunningham.  Inquiries  after  our 

Bard. 265 

93.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  In  reply  to  the  above,  266 

94.  To  Mr  Hill.  Orders  for  books, 266 

95.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Remarks  on  the  Lounger, 

and  on  the  Writings  of  Mr.  Mackenzie, 267 

96.  From  Mr.  Cunningham.  Account  of  the  death 

of  Miss  Burnet  of  Monboddo, 268 

97.  To  Dr.  Moore.  Thanks  for  a present  of  Ze- 

luco,  26S 

98.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Written  under  wounded 

pride, 269 


No.  Page. 

99.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Aspirations  after  in- 
dependence,   269 

100.  From  Dr.  Blacklock.  Poetical  letter  of 

friendship, 269 

101.  Extract  from  Mr.  Cunningham.  Suggesting 

subjects  for  our  Poet’s  muse, 270 

102.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Congratulations  on  the 

birth  of  her  grandson, 270 

103.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  With  an  elegy  on  Miss 

Burnet  of  Monboddo. 270 

104.  To  Mr.  Hill.  Indignant  apostrophe  to  Pov- 

erty,  270 

105.  From  A.  F.  Tytler,  Esq.  Criticism  on  Tam 

o’Shanter, 271 

106.  To  A.  F.  Tytler,  Esq.  In  reply  to  the  above,  272 

107.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Enclosing  his  elegy  on 

Miss  Burnet, 272 

108.  To  Lady  W.  M.  Constable.  Acknowledging 

a present  of  a snuffbox, 272 

109.  To  Mrs.  Graham  of  Fintry.  Enclosing 

‘ Queen  Mary’s  Lament,’ 272 

110.  From  the  Rev.  G.  Baird.  Requesting  assist- 

ance in  publishing  the  poems  of  Michael 
Bruce, 273 

111.  To  the  Rev.  G.  Baird.  In  reply  to  the  above  273 

112.  To  Dr.  Moore.  EnclosingTam  o’Shanter,  &c.  273 

113.  From  Dr.  Moore.  With  Remarks  on  Tam 

o’  Shanter,  &c. 274 

114.  To  the  Rev.  A.  Alison.  Acknowledging  his 

present  of  the  ‘ Essays  on  the  Principles  of 
Taste,’  with  remarks  on  the  book, 275 

115.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  With  a Jacobite 

song,  &c., 275 

116.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Comparison  between  fe- 

male attractions  in  high  and  humble  life,  - • 276 

117.  To  Mr. . Reflections  on  his  own  indol- 

ence,   276 

118.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Requesting  his  interest 

for  an  oppressed  friend, 276 

119.  From  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  Inviting  over  our 

bard  to  the  Coronation  of  the  Bust  of  Thom- 
son on  Ednam  Hill, 277 

120.  To  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  In  reply, 277 

121.  From  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  Proposing  a sub- 

ject for  our  poet’s  muse,' 277 

122.  To  Lady  E.  Cunningham.  Enclosing  ‘The 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn,’ 278 

123.  To  Mr.  Ainslie.  State  of  his  mind  after  ine- 

briation,   278 

124.  From  Sir  John  Whitefoord.  Thanks  for  ‘The 

Lament  for  James  Earl  of  Glencairn,’ 278 

125.  From  A.  F.  Tytler,  Esq.  Criticism  on  the 

Whistle  and  the  Lament, 278 

126.  To  Miss  Davies.  Apology  for  neglecting  her 

commands — moral  reflections, 279 

127.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Enclosing  ‘ The  Song  of 

Death,’ 280 

128.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Acknowledging  the  pres- 

ent of  a cup, 280 

129.  To  Mr.  William  Smellie.  Introducing  Mrs. 

Riddel, 280 

130.  To  Mr.  W.  Nicol.  Ironical  thanks  for  advice  281 

131.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Commissions  his  arms 

to  be  cut  on  a seal — moral  reflections, 281 

132.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Account  of  his  meeting 

with  Miss  L B and  enclosing 

a song  on  her, 282 

133.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Wild  apostrophe  to  a 

Spirit ! 283 

134.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Account  of  his  family, 284 

135.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Letter  of  condolence  un- 

der affliction, 284 

136.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  With  a poem,  entitled  ‘ The 

Rights  of  Woman,’ 284 

137.  To  Miss  B of  York.  Letter  of  friendship  285 

138.  To  Miss  C . Character  and  temperament 

of  a poet 285 

139.  To  John  M’Murdo,  Esq.  Repaying  money-  286 

140.  To  Mrs.  R . Advising  her  what  play  to 

bespeak  at  the  Dumfries  Theatre, 286 

141 . To  a Lady,  in  favor  of  a Player’s  Benefit.  • 286 

142.  Extract  to  Mr. . On  his  prospects  in  the 

Excise. 287 

143.  To  Mrs.  R , 287 

144.  To  the  Same.  Describing  his  melancholy 

feelings, 267 


CONTENTS 


No.  Page. 

145.  To  the  Same.  Lending  Werter, 237 

146.  To  the  Same.  On  a return  of  interrupted 

friendship, 2S7 

147.  To  the  Same.  On  a temporary  estrangement  2S8 
143.  To  John  Syme,  Esq.  Reflections  on  the 

happiness  of  Mr.  O , 2S8 

149.  To  Miss . Requesting  the  return  of  MSS. 

lent  to  a deceased  friend, 288 

150.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Melancholy  reflections 

— cheering  prospects  of  a happier  world  - • • 289 

151.  To  Mrs.  R . Supposed  to  be  written  from 

•The  dead  to  the  living,’ 2S9 

152.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reflections  on  the  situation 

of  his  family  if  he  should  die — praise  of  the 
poem  entitled  ‘ The  Task,’ 290 

153.  To  the  Same  in  London. 290 

154.  To  Mrs.  R . Thanks  for  the  Travels  of 

Anacharsis. 291 

155.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Account  of  the  Death  of 

his  Daughter,  and  of  his  own  ill  health,  • • • 291 

156.  To  Mrs.  R . Apology  for  not  going  to  the 

birth-night  assembly," 291 

157.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Account  of  h’s  illness 

and  of  his  poverty  — anticipation  of  his 
death, 292 

158.  To  Mrs.  Burns.  Sea-bathing  affords  little  re- 

lief,   - 292 

159.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Last  farewell, 292 

CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  MR.  THOMSON  AND 
MR.  BURNS. 

1.  Mr.  Thomson  to  Mr.  Burns.  Desiring  the 


bard  to  furnish  verses  for  some  of  the  Scot- 
tish airs,  and  to  revise  former  songs. 294 

2.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Promising  assistance, 294 

3.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Sending  some  tunes, 294 

4.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘The  Lea-Rig,’  and 

‘ Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary,’  295 

5.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ My  wife’s  a winsome 

wee  thing,’  and  ‘ O saw  ye  bonnie  Les- 
lie,’   • * ...  296 

6.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ Highland  Mary,’ 296 

7.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Thanks  and  critical  observa- 

tions,   296 

8.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  an  additional  stanza 

to  ‘ Lea-Rig,’ 297 

9.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ Auld  Rob  Morris,’ 

and  ‘ Duncan  Gray.’ 297 

10.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ O Poortith  Cauld,’ 

&c.  and  • Galla  Water,’  297 

11.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Desiring  anecdotes  on  the 

origin  of  particular  songs.  Tytlerol  Wood- 
hoaselee— Pleyel — sends  P.  Pindar’s  ‘ Lord 
Gregory.' — Postscript  from  the  Honorable 
A.  Erskine, 298 

12.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Has  Mr.  Tytler’s  anecdotes 

and  means  to  give  his  own — Sends  his  own 
‘ Lord  Gregory,’ 298 

13.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  W :th  1 Mary  Morrison,’-  • • • 299 

14.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ Wandering  Willie,’  299 

15.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 Open  the  door  to  me, 

oh  !’ 299 

16.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 Jessy,’ 299 

17.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  With  a list  of  songs  and 

‘ Wandering  Willie’ altered, 299 

18.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  4 When  wild  war’s  deadly 

blast  was  blawn.’  and  4 Meg  o’  the  Mill,’  - - 300 

19.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Voice  of  Co. la — Criticism — 

Origin  of ‘The  Lass  o’  Patie’s  Mill,’ 300 

20.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B. 301 

21.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Simplicity  requisite  in  a 

song — One  poet  should  not  mangle  the 
works  of  another. 301 

22.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  • Farewell  thou  stream  that 

winding  flows.’ — Wishes  that  the  national 
music  may  preserve  its  native  features.  - • • 302 

23.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  15.  Thanks  and  observations,  • 302 

24.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘Blithe  hae  I been  on 

yon  hill.’ 302 

23.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘O  Logan,  sweetly 
didst  thou  glide,’ 4 O gin  my  love  were  yon 
red  rose.’  &c. 303 

26.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Enclosing  a note — Thanks,  303 

27.  Mr  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘There  was  a lass  and 

she  was  fair,’ 304 


157 

No.  Pagk 

28.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Hurt  at  the  idea  of  pecuni- 

ary recompense — Remarks  on  songs, 304 

29.  Mr.  'i'.  to  Mr.  B.  Musical  expression, 304 

30.  Mr  B.  to  Mr.  T.  For  Mr.  Clarke. 304 

31.  M.r.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 Phillis  the  Fair. 305 

32.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Mr.  Allan — drawing  from 

‘John  Anderson  my  Jo,’ 305 

33.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 Had  I a cave,’  &c. 

— Some  airs  common  to  Scotland  and  Ire- 
land,   305 

34.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 By  Allan  stream  I 

chanced  to  rove,’ 306 

35.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 Whistle  and  I’ll  come 

to  you,  my  lad,  and  4 Awa  wi’  your  belles 
and  your  beauties,’ 306 

36.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 Come,  let  me  take 

thee  to  my  breast,’ 306 

37.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  ‘ Dainty  Davie,’ 306 

38.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Delighted  with  the  produc- 

tions of  Burns’s  Muse, 307 

39.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 Bruce  to  his  troops 

at  Bannockburn,’ 307 

40.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ Behold  the  hour,  the 

boat  arrive,’ 307 

41.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Observations  on  4 Bruce  to 

his  troops,’ 307 

42.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Remarks  on  songs  in  Mr. 

T’s  list — His  own  method  of  forming  a song 
— ‘ Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie’ — ‘Where 
are  the  joys  I hae  met  in  the  morning,’  ‘Auld 


lang  syne,’ 308 

43.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  a variation  of  4 Ban- 

nockburn,’  - 309 

44.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Thanks  and  observations,  • 309 

45.  Mr  B.  to  Mr.  T.  On  4 Bannockburn’ — sends 

4 Fair  Jenny,’ 310 

46.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 Deluded  swain,  the 

pleasure’ — Remarks, 310 

47.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  W ith  4 Thine  am  I,  my  faith- 

ful fair,’ — 1 O condescend  dear  charming 
maid’ — ‘The  nightingale’ — ‘Laura’ — (the 
three  last  by  G.  Turnbull) 311 

48.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Apprehensions — Thanks,  • 313 

49.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  • Husband,  husband, 

cease  your  strife  !’  and  4 Wilt  thou  be  my 
dearie  ?’ 312 

50.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Melancholy  comparison  be- 

tween Burns  and  Carlini Mr.  Allan  has 

begun  a sketch  from  the  Cotter’s  Saturday 
Night, 312 

51.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Praise  of  Mr.  Allan— ‘Banks 

of  Cree,’ 319 

52.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Pleyel  in  France — ‘ Here, 

where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives,’ 
presented  to  Miss  Graham  of  Fintry,  with 
a copy  of  Mr.  Thomson’s  Collection, 313 

53.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Does  not  expect  to  hear 

from  Pleyel  soon,  but  desires  to  be  prepar- 
ed with  the  poetry. 313 

54.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 On  the  Seas  and  far 

away,’ 313 

55.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Criticism, 313 

56.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 Ca’  the  yowes  to  the 

knowes,’ 313 

57.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  4 She  says  she  lo’esme 

best  of  a’,’ — ‘ O let  me  in,’  Sec. — Stanza  to 
Dr.  Maxwell, 314 

58.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Advising  him  to  write  a Mu- 

sical Drama, 314 

59.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Has  been  examining  Scot- 

tish collections — Ritson — Difficult  to  obtain 
ancient  melodies  in  their  original  state  - ■ • • 315 


GO.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Recipe  for  producing  a love- 
song — ‘ Saw  ye  my  Phely’ — Remarks  and 
anecdotes — 4 llow  long  and  dreary  is  the 
night’ — 4 Let  not  woman  e’er  complain’ — 
‘The  Cover’s  morning  Salute  to  his  M:stress, 

— ‘The  Auld  man’ — • Keen  blows  the  wind 
o’er  Donochthead.’  in  a note, 315 

61.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr  B.  Wishes  he  knew  the  inspi- 

ring fair  one — Ritson’s  Historical  Essay 
not  interesting — Allan — Maggie  Lawder  317 

62.  Mr  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Has  began  his  Anecdotes, 

Sec.  4 My  Chloris  mark  how  green  the 
groves.’ — Love  — ‘It  was  the  charnrng 
month  of  May’ — 4 Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white 


158 


CONTENTS 


No.  Page. 

locks’ — History  of  the  air  ‘ Ye  Banks  and 
braes  o’  bonnie  Doon’ — James  Miller — 
Clarke — The  black  keys — Instance  of  the 
difficulty  of  tracing  the  origin  of  ancient  airs  317 

63.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  With  three  copies  of  the 

Scottish  airs. 318 

64.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ O Philly,  happy  be 

that  day’ — Starting  note — ‘ Contented  wi’ 
little,  and  c antic  wi’  in  air.’ — ‘ Canst  thou 
leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ?’ — (The  Reply, 

‘ Stay  my  Willie,  yet  believe  me,’  in  a note) 


— Stock  and  horn. 319 

65.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Praise — Desires  more  songs 
of  the  humorous  cast — Means  to  have  a 

picture  from  ‘The  Soldier’s  Return.’ 320 

06.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ My  Nannie’s  awa,’  320 

67.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ For  a’ that  an’  a’  that’ 

and  ‘ Sweet  fa’s  the  eve  on  Craigie-burn’*  • 320 

68.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr  B.  Thanks, 321 

69.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  ‘O  lassie,  art  thou  sleeping 

yet  ?’  and  the  Answer, 321 

70.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  'I'.  Dispraise  of  Ecclefechan-  • 321 

71.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Thanks, 321 

72.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  1 Address  to  the  Woodlark’ 

— • On  Chloris’  being  ill’ — ‘ Their  groves  o’ 
sweet  myrtle,’  See.—' ‘ ’Twas  na  her  bonnie 
blue  e’e,’  See., 321 

73.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  Bi  AVith  Allan’s  design  from 

‘The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,’ 322 

74.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ How  cruel  are  the 

parents,’  and  ‘ Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly 
fashion.’ 322 

75.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  3’.  Thanks  for  Allan’s  designs,  322 

70.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Compliment, 322 

77.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  an  improvement  in 


‘Whistle  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad,’ — ‘O 
this  is  no  my  ain  lassie,’ — ‘ Now  spring  has 
clad  the  grove  in  green’ — ‘ O bonnie  was 
yon  rosy  brier’ — ‘ ’Tis  Friendship’s  pledge 
my  young,  fair  Friend,’ 323 


No.  Page. 

78.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Introducing  Dr.  Brian- 

ton. 323 

79.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T ‘ Forlorn  my  love,  no  com- 

fort near,’ 323 

80.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  1 Last  May  a braw  wooer 

cam  down  the  lang  glen’ — • Why,  why  tell 
thy  lover’ a fragment, 323 

81.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B., 324 

82.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  After  an  awful  pause, 324 

83.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Thanks  for  P.  Pindar,  &c. — 

• Hey  for  a lass  wi’  a tocher,’ 324 

84.  Mr.  3'.  "to  Mr.  B.  Allan  has  designed  some 

plates  for  an  octavo  edition, 324 

85.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Afflicted  by  sickness,  but 

pleased  with  Mr.  Allan’s  etchings, 324 

86.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Sympathy,  encouragement,  325 

87.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  ‘ Here’s  a health  to 

ane  I lo’e  dear,’ 325 

88.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Introducing  Mr.  Lewars — 

Has  taken  a fancy  to  review  his  songs — 
Hopes  to  recover. 325 


89.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Dreading  the  horrors  of  a 

jail,  solicits  the  advance  of  five  pounds,  and 
encloses  ‘ Fairest  Maid  on  Devon  banks,’  • 325 

90.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Sympathy — advises  a vol- 

ume of  poetry  to  be  published  by  subscrip- 


tion— Pope  published  the  Iliad  so, 325 

Letter  containing  some  particulars  of  History  of 

the  foregoing  Poems,  by  Gilbert  Burns, 326 

Letter  to  Captain  Grose, 329 

APPENDIX. 

No.  1. 331 

No.  II.  Including  an  extract  of  a Poem  addressed 

to  Burns  by  Mr.  Telford, 333 

No.  III.  Letter  from  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns  to  the  Ed- 
itor, approving  of  his  Life  of  his  Brother  ; with 
observations  on  the  effects  of  refinement  of 
taste  on  the  laboring  classes  of  men, 336 


PREFATORY  REMARKS 

TO  THE 

LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


Though  the  dialect  in  which  many  of  the  1 
happiest  effusions  of  Robert  Burns  are  com- 
posed be  peculiar  to  Scotland,  yet  his  reputation 
has  extended  itself  beyond  the  limits  of  that 
country,  and  his  poetry  has  been  admired  as  the 
offspring  of  original  genius,  by  persons  of  taste 
in  every  part  of  the  sister  islands.  The  interest 
excited  by  his  early  death,  and  the  distress  of 
his  infant  family,  have  been  felt  in  a remark- 
able manner  wherever  his  writings  have  been 
known  : and  these  posthumous  volumes,  which 
give  the  world  his  works  complete,  and  which, 
it  is  hoped,  may  raise  his  widow  and  children 
from  penury,  are  printed  and  published  in  Eng- 
land. It  seems  proper,  therefore,  to  write  the 
memoirs  of  his  life,  not  with  the  view  of  their 
being  read  by  Scotchmen  only,  but  also  by  na- 
tives of  England,  and  of  other  countries  where 
the  English  language  is  spoken  or  understood. 

Robert  Burns  was,  in  reality,  what  he  has 
been  represented  to  be,  a Scottish  peasant.  To 
render  the  incidents  of  his  humble  story  gener- 
ally intelligible,  it  seems,  therefore,  advisable  to 
prefix  some  observations  on  the  character  and 
situation  of  the  order  to  which  he  belonged — a 
class  of  men  distinguished  by  many  peculiarities: 
by  this  means  we  shall  form  a more  correct  no- 
tion of  the  advantages  with  which  he  started, 
and  of  the  obstacles  which  he  surmounted.  A 
few  observations  on  the  Scottish  peasantry  will 
not,  perhaps,  be  found  unworthy  of  attention  in 
other  respects ; and  the  subject  is,  in  a great 
measure,  new.  Scotland  has  produced  persons 
of  high  distinction  in  every  branch  of  philosophy 
and  literature  ; and  her  history,  while  a separ- 
ate and  independent  nation,  has  been  success- 
fully explored.  But  the  present  character  of  the 
people  was  not  then  formed  ; the  nation  then 
presented  features  similar  to  those  which  the 
feudal  system  and  the  Catholic  religion  had  dif- 
fused over  Europe,  modified,  indeed,  by  the  pe- 
culiar nature  of  her  territory  and  climate.  The 
Reformation,  by  which  such  important  changes 
were  produced  on  the  national  character,  was 
speedily  followed  by  the  accession  of  the  Scot- 
tish monarchs  to  the  English  throne  : and  the 
period  which  elapsed  from  that  accession  to  the 
Union,  has  been  rendered  memorable,  chiefly, 
by  those  bloody  convulsions  in  which  both  di- 
visions of  the  island  were  involved,  and  which, 
in  a considerable  degree,  concealed  from  the  eye 
of  the  historian  the  domestic  history  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  the  gradual  variations  in  their  condi- 
tion and  manners.  Since  the  Union,  Scotland, 


though  the  seat  of  two  unsuccessful  attempts  to 
restore  the  house  of  Stuart  to  the  throne,  has 
enjoyed  a comparative  tranquillity;  and  it  is  since 
this  period  that  the  present  character  of  her  peas- 
antry has  been  in  a great  measure  formed,  though 
the  political  causes  affecting  it  are  to  be  traced 
to  the  previous  acts  of  her  separate  legislature. 

A slight  acquaintance  with  the  peasantry  of 
Scotland  will  serve  to  convince  an  unprejudiced 
observer,  that  they  possess  a degree  of  intelli- 
gence not  generally  found  among  the  same  class 
of  men  in  the  other  countries  of  Europe.  In  the 
very  humblest  condition  of  the  Scottish  peasants, 
every  one  can  read,  and  most  persons  are  more 
or  less  skilled  in  writing  and  arithmetic  ; and, 
under  the  disguise  of  their  uncouth  appearance, 
and  of  their  peculiar  manners  and  dialect,  a stran- 
ger will  discover  that  they  possess  a curiosity, 
and  have  obtained  a degree  of  information,  cor- 
responding to  these  acquirements. 

These  advantages  they  owe  to  the  legal  pro- 
vision made  by  the  parliament  of  Scotland  in 
1646,  for  the  establishment  of  a school  in  every 
parish  throughout  the  kingdom,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  educating  the  poor  : a law  which 
may  challenge  comparison  with  any  act  of  leg- 
islation to  be  found  in  the  records  of  history, 
whether  we  consider  the  wisdom  of  the  ends  in 
view,  the  simplicity  of  the  means  employed,  or 
the  provisions  made  to  render  these  means  ef- 
fectual to  their  purpose.  This  excellent  statute 
was  repealed  on  the  accession  of  Charles  II.  in 
1660,  together  with  all  the  other  laws  passed 
during  the  commonwealth,  as  not  being  sanc- 
tioned by  the  royal  assent.  It  slept  during  the 
reigns  of  Charles  and  James,  but  was  re-enact- 
ed, precisely  in  the  same  terms,  by  the  Scottish 
parliament  after  the  revolution,  1696  ; and  this 
is  the  last  provision  on  the  subject.  Its  effects 
on  the  national  character  may  be  considered  to 
have  commenced  about  the  period  of  the  Union  ; 
and  doubtless  it  co-operated  with  the  peace  and 
security  arising  from  that  happy  event,  in  pro- 
ducing the  extraordinary  change  in  favor  of  in- 
dustry and  good  morals,  which  the  character  of 
the  common  people  of  Scotland  has  since  under- 
gone.* 

The  church-establishment  of  Scotland  happi- 
ly coincides  with  the  institution  just  mentioned, 
which  may  be  called  its  school  establishment. 
The  clergyman  himself  being  every  where  res- 
ident in  his  particular  parish,  becomes  the  pat- 
ron and  superintendent  of  the  parish  school,  and 
* See  Appendix,  No.  I.,  Note  A. 

159 


160 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


is  enabled  in  various  ways  to  promote  the  com- 
fort of  the  teacher,  and  the  proficiency  of  the 
scholars.  The  teacher  himself  is  often  a candi- 
date for  holy  orders,  who,  during  the  long  course 
of  study  and  probation  required  in  the  Scottish 
church,  renders  the  time  which  can  be  spared 
from  his  professional  studies,  useful  to  others  as 
well  as  to  himself,  by  assuming  the  respectable 
character  of  a schoolmaster.  It  is  common  for 
the  established  schools,  even  in  the  country  par- 
ishes of  Scotland,  to  enjoy  the  means  of  classi- 
cal instruction  ; and  many  of  the  farmers,  and 
some  even  of  the  cottagers,  submit  to  much  pri- 
vation, that  they  may  obtain,  for  one  of  their  sons 
at  least,  the  precarious  advantage  of  a learned  ed- 
ucation. The  difficulty  to  be  surmounted  arises, 
indeed,  not  from  the  expense  of  instructing  their 
children,  but  from  the  charge  of  supporting  them. 
In  the  country  parish  schools,  the  English  lan- 
guage, writing,  and  accounts,  are  generally 
taught  at  the  rate  of  six  shillings,  and  Latin 
at  the  rate  of  ten  or  twelve  shillings  per  an- 
num. In  the  towns  the  prices  are  somewhat 
higher. 

It  would  be  improper  in  this  place  to  inquire 
minutely  into  the  degree  of  instruction  received 
at  these  seminaries,  or  to  attempt  any  precise 
estimate  of  its  effects,  either  on  the  individuals 
who  are  the  subjects  of  this  instruction,  or  on 
the  community  to  which  they  belong.  That  it 
is  on  the  whole  favorable  to  industry  and  mor- 
als, though  doubtless  with  some  individual  ex- 
ceptions, seems  to  be  proved  by  the  most  stri- 
king and  decisive  appearance  ; and  it  is  equally 
clear,  that  it  is  the  cause  of  that  spirit  of  emigra- 
tion and  of  adventure  so  prevalent  among  the 
Scotch.  Knowledge  has,  by  Lord  Verulam, 
been  denominated  power;  by  others  it  has  with 
less  propriety  been  denominated  virtue  or  happi- 
ness : we  may  with  confidence  consider  it  as  mo- 
tion. A human  being,  in  proportion  as  he  is  in- 
formed. has  his  wishes  enlarged,  as  well  as  the 
means  of  gratifying  those  wishes.  He  may  be 
considered  as  taking  within  the  sphere  of  his  vis- 
ion a large  portion  of  the  globe  on  which  we 
tread, and  discovering  advantages  at  a greater  dis- 
tance on  its  surface.  His  desires  or  ambition, 
once  excited,  are  stimulated  by  his  imagination ; 
and  distant  and  uncertain  objects,  giving  freer 
scope  to  the  operation  of  this  faculty,  often  ac- 
quire in  the  mind  of  the  youthful  adventurer,  an 
attraction  from  their  very  distance  and  uncertain- 
ty. If,  therefore,  a greater  degree  of  instruction 
be  given  to  the  peasantry  of  a country  compara- 
tively poor,  in  the  neighborhood  of  other  coun- 
tries rich  in  natural  and  acquired  advantages; 
and  if  the  barriers  be  removed  that  kept  them 
separate,  emigration  from  the  former  to  the  latter 
will  take  place  to  a certain  extent,  by  law's  near- 
ly as  uniform  as  those  by  which  heat  diffuses  it- 
self among  surrounding  bodies,  or  water  finds 
its  level  when  left  to  its  natural  course.  By  the 
articles  of  the  Union,  the  barrier  was  broken 
down  which  divided  the  tw’o  British  nations,  and 
knowledge  and  poverty  poured  the  adventurous 
natives  of  the  north  over  the  fertile  plains  of  Eng- 
land : and  more  especially,  over  the  colonies 
which  she  had  settled  in  the  east  and  west.  The 
stream  of  population  continues  to  flow  from  the 
north  to  the  south  ; for  the  causes  that  originally 
impelled  it  continue  to  operate:  and  the  richer 
country  is  constantly  invigorated  by  the  accession 
of  an  informed  and  hardy  race  of  men,  educated 


in  poverty,  and  prepared  for  hardship  and  dan- 
ger ; patient  of  labor,  and  prodigal  of  life.* 

The  preachers  of  the  Reformation  in  Scotland 
were  the  disciples  of  Calvin,  and  brought  with 
them  the  temper  as  well  as  the  tenets  of  that 
celebrated  heresiarch.  The  presbyterian  form 
of  worship  and  of  church  government  was  en- 
deared to  the  people,  from  its  being  established 
by  themselves.  It  was  endeared  to  them,  also, 
by  the  struggle  it  had  to  maintain  with  the  Cath- 
olic and  the  Protestant  episcopal  churches  ; over 
both  of  which,  after  a hundred  years  of  fierce 
and  sometimes  bloody  contention,  it  finally  tri- 
umphed, receiving  the  countenance  of  govern- 
ment, and  the  sanction  of  law.  During  this  long 
period  of  contention  and  suffering,  the  temper 
of  the  people  became  more  and  more  obstinate 
and  bigoted  : and  the  nation  received  that  deep 
tinge  of  fanaticism  which  colored  their  public 
transactions,  as  well  as  their  private  virtues,  and 
of  which  evident  traces  may  be  found  in  our  own 
times.  When  the  public  schools  were  estab- 
lished, the  instruction  communicated  in  them 
partook  of  the  religious  character  of  the  people. 
The  Catechism  of  the  Westminster  Divines  was 
the  universal  school-book,  and  was  put  into  the 
hands  of  the  young  peasant  as  soon  as  he  had 
acquired  a knowledge  of  his  alphabet ; and  his 
first  exercise  in  the  art  of  reading  introduced 
him  to  the  most  mysterious  doctrines  of  the 
Christian  faith.  This  practice  is  continued  in  our 
own  times.  After  the  Assembly’s  Catechism, 
the  Proverbs  of  Solomon,  and  the  New  and 
Old  Testament,  follow  in  regular  succession;  and 
the  scholar  departs,  gifted  with  a knowledge  of 
the  sacred  writings,  and  receiving  their  doctrines 
according  to  the  interpretation  of  the  Westmin- 
ster Confession  of  Faith.  Thus,  with  the  in- 
struction of  infancy  in  the  schools  of  Scotland 
are  blended  the  dogmas  of  the  national  church ; 
and  hence  the  first  and  most  constant  exercise 
of  ingenuity  among  the  peasantry  of  Scotland 
is  displayed  in  religious  disputation.  With  a 
strong  attachment  to  the  national  creed,  is  con- 
joined a bigoted  preference  of  certain  forms  of 
worship  ; the  source  of  which  would  be  often  al- 
together obscure,  if  we  do  not  recollect  that  the 
ceremonies  of  the  Scottish  church  were  framed 
in  direct  opposition,  in  every  point,  to  those  of 
the  church  of  Rome. 

The  eccentricities  of  conduct,  and  singulari- 
ties of  opinion  and  manners,  which  characterized 
the  English  sectaries  in  the  last  century,  afforded 
a subject  for  the  comic  muse  of  Butler,  whose 
pictures  lose  their  interest,  since  their  archetypes 
are  lost.  Some  of  the  peculiarities  common 
among  the  more  rigid  disciples  of  Calvinism  in 
Scotland,  in  the  present  times,  have  given  scope 
to  the  ridicule  of  Burns,  whose  humor  is  equal 
to  Butler’s,  and  whose  drawings  from  living 
manners  are  singularly  expressive  and  exact. 
Unfortunately,  the  correctness  of  his  taste  did  not 
always  correspond  with  the  strength  of  his  geni- 
us ; and  hence  some  of  the  most  exquisite  of  his 
comic  productions  are  rendered  unfit  for  the 
light. t 

The  information  and  the  religious  education 
of  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  promote  sedateness 
of  conduct,  and  habits  of  thought  and  reflection. 

* See  Appendix,  No.  I.,  Note.  It. 

t Holy  Willie’s  Prayer:  Rob  the  Rhymer’s  Wel- 
come to  his  Bastard  Child  ; Epistle  to  J.  Gowdie ; the 
Holy  Tulzie,  & c. 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


These  good  qualities  are  not  counteracted  by 
the  establishment  of  poor  laws,  which  while  they 
reflect  credit  on  the  benevolence,  detract  from 
the  wisdom  ofthe  English  legislature.  To  make 
n legal  provision  for  the  inevitable  distresses  of 
the  poor,  who  by  ago  or  disease  are  rendered 
incapable  of  labor,  may  indeed  seem  an  indis- 
pensable duty  of  society  ; and  if,  in  the  execu- 
tion of  a pi  m lor  this  purpose,  a distinction  could 
be  introduced,  so  as  to  exclude  from  its  benefits 
those  whos  1 sufferings  are  pr  >d  ic  d by  idleness 
or  profligacy,  such  an  institution  would  perhaps 
be  as  rational  as  humane.  But  to  lay  a general 
tax  on  property  for  the  support  of  poverty,  from 
whatever  cause  proceeding,  is  a measure  full  of 
danger.  It  must  operate  in  a considerable  de- 
gree as  an  incitement  to  idleness,  and  a discour- 
agement to  industry.  It  takes  away  from  vice 
and  indolence  the  prospect  of  their  most  dreaded 
consequences,  and  from  virtue  and  industry  their 
peculiar  sanctions.  In  many  cases  it  must  ren- 
der the  rise  in  the  price  of  labor,  not  a blessing, 
but  a curse  to  the  laborer  ; who,  if  there  be  an 
excess  in  what  he  earns  beyond  his  immediate 
necessities,  may  be  expected  to  devote  this  ex- 
cess to  his  present  gratification  ; trusting  to  the 

ftrovision  made  by  law  for  his  own  and  his  f’ami- 
y’s  support,  should  disease  suspend  or  death  ter- 
minate his  labors.  Happily,  m Scotland,  the 
same  legislature  which  established  a system  of 
instruction  for  the  poor,  resisted  the  introduction 
of  a legal  provision  for  the  support  of  poverty  ; 
the  establishment  ofthe  first,  and  the  rejection  of 
the  last,  were  equally  favorable  to  industry  and 
good  morals  ; and  hence  it  will  not  appear  sur- 
prising, if  the  Scottish  peasantry  have  a more 
than  usual  share  of  prudence  and  reflection,  if 
they  approach  nearer  than  persons  of  their  order 
usually  do,  to  the  definition  of  a man,  that  of 
“ a being  that  looks  before  and  after.”  These 
observations  must  indeed  be  taken  with  many 
exceptions  : the  favorable  operation  of  the  causes 
just  mentioned  is  counteracted  by  others  of  an  op- 
posite tendency  ; and  the  subject,  if  fuliy  ex- 
amined, would  lead  to  discussions  of  great  ex- 
tent. 

When  the  Reformation  was  established  in 
Scotland,  instrumental  music  was  banished  from 
the  churches,  as  savoring  too  much  of  “ pro- 
fane minstrelsy.”  Instead  of  being  regulated 
by  an  instrument,  the  voices  of  the  congregation 
are  led  and  directed  by  a person  under  the  name 
of  a precentor  ; and  the  people  are  all  expected 
to  join  in  the  tune  which  he  chooses  for  the 
psalm  which  is  to  be  sung.  Church-music  is 
therefore  a part  of  the  education  of  the  peasant- 
ry of  Scotland,  in  which  they  are  usually  in- 
structed in  the  long  winter  nights  by  the  par- 
ish schoolmaster,  who  is  generally  the  precen- 
tor, or  by  itinerant  'eschars  more  celebrated 
for  their  powers  of  voice.  'I  bis  branch  of  edu- 
cation had,  in  the  las’,  reign,  fallen  into  soipe  neg- 
lect, but  was  revived  about  thirty  or  forty  years 
ago,  when  the  music  itself  was  roformed  and 
improved.  The  Scottish  system  of  psalmody  is, 
however,  radically  bad.  Destitute  of  taste  or 
harmony,  it  forms  a striking  contrast  with  the 
delicacy  and  pathos  of  the  profane  airs.  Our 
poet,  it  will  be  found,  was  taught  church-music, 
in  which,  however,  he  made  little  proficiency. 

That  dancing  should  also  be  very  generally  a 
part  of  the  education  of  the  Scottish  peasantry, 
will  surprise  those  who  have  only  seen  this  de- 


1G1 

scription  of  men  ; and  still  more  those  who  re- 
flect on  the  rigid  spirit  of  Calvinism  with  which 
the  nation  is  so  deeply  affected,  and  to  which 
this  recreation  is  so  strongly  abhorrent.  The 
winter  is  also  the  season  when  they  acquire  dan- 
cing, and  indeed  almost  all  their  other  instruction. 
They  are  taught  to  dance  by  persons  generally 
of  their  own  number,  many  of  whom  work  at 
daily  labor  during  the  summer  months.  The 
school  is  usually  a barn,  and  the  arena  for  the 
performers  is  generally  a clay  floor.  The  dome 
is  lighted  with  candles  stuck  in  one  end  of  a 
cloven  stick,  the  other  end  of  which  is  thrust 
into  the  wall.  Reels,  strathspeys,  country-dan- 
ces, and  horn-pipes,  are  here  practiced.  The 
jig,  so  much  in  favor  among  the  English  peas- 
antry, has  no  place  among  them.  The  attach- 
ment of  the  people  of  Scotland  of  every  rank, 
and  particularly  ofthe  peasantry,  to  this  amuse- 
ment, is  very  great.  After  the  labors  of  the  day 
are  over,  young  men  and  women  walk  many 
miles,  in  the  cold  and  dreary  nights  of  winter, 
to  these  country  dancing-schools  ; and  the  in- 
stant that  the  violin  sounds  a Scottish  air,  fatigue 
seems  to  vanish,  the  toil-bent  rustic  becomes 
erect,  his  features  brighten  with  sympathy  ; ev- 
ery nerve  seems  to  thrill  with  sensation,  and 
every  artery  to  vibrate  with  life.  These  rustic 
performers  are  indeed  less  to  be  admired  for  grace 
than  for  agility  and  animation,  and  their  accu- 
rate observance  of  time.  Their  modes  of  dan- 
cing, as  well  as  their  tunes,  are  common  to  ev- 
ery rank  in  Scotland,  and  are  now  generally 
known.  In  our  own  day  they  have  penetrated 
into  England,  and  have  established  themselves 
even  in  the  circle  of  royalty.  In  another  gene- 
ration they  will  be  naturalized  in  every  part  of 
the  island. 

The  prevalence  of  this  taste,  or  rather  passion 
for  dancing,  among  a people  so  deeply  tinctured 
with  the  spirit  and  doctrines  of  Calvin,  is  one 
of  those  contradictions  which  t he  philosophic 
observer  so  often  finds  in  national  character  and 
manners.  It  is  probably  to  be  ascribed  to  the 
Scottish  music,  which  throughout  all  its  varie- 
ties. is  so  full  of  sensibility  ; and  which,  in  its 
livelier  strains,  awakes  those  vivid  emotions  that 
find  in  dancing  their  natural  solace  and  relief. 

This  triumph  of  the  music  of  Scotland  over 
the  spirit  of  the  established  religion,  has  not, 
however,  been  obtained  without  long  continued 
and  obstinate  struggles.  The  numerous  secta- 
ries wrho  dissent  from  the  establishment  on  ac- 
count of  the  relaxation  which  they  perceive,  or 
think  they  perceive,  in  the  church,  from  her  orig- 
inal doctrines  and  discipline,  universally  con- 
demn the  practice  of  dancing,  and  the  schools 
where  it  is  taught ; and  the  more  elderly  and 
serious  part  of  the  people,  of  every  persuasion, 
tolerate  rather  than  approve  these  meetings  of 
the  young  of  both  sexes,  where  dancing  is  prac- 
ticed to  their  spirit-stirring  music,  where  care 
is  dispelled,  toil  is  forgotten,  and  prudence  itself 
is  sometimes  lulled  to  sleep. 

The  Reformation,  which  proved  fatal  to  the 
rise  of  other  fine  arts  in  Scotland,  probably  im- 
peded, but  could  not  obstruct  the  progress  of  its 
music:  a circumstance  that  will  convince  the 
impartial  inquirer,  that  this  music  not  only  ex- 
isted previously  to  that  aera,  but  had  taken  a 
firm  hold  of  the  nation  ; thus  affording  a proof 
of  its  antiquity,  stronger  than  any  produced  by 
the  researches  of  our  antiquaries. 


162 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


The  impression  which  the  Scottish  music  has 
made  on  die  people,  is  deepened  by  its  union 
with  the  national  songs,  of  which  various  col- 
lections of  unequal  merit  are  before  the  public. 
These  songs,  like  those  of  other  nations,  are 
many  of  them  humorous  ; but  they  chiefly  treat 
of  love,  war.  and  drinking.  Love  is  the  subject 
of  the  greater  proportion.  Without  displaying 
the  higher  powers  of  the  imagination,  they  ex- 
hibit a perfect  knowledge  of  the  human  heart, 
and  breathe  a spirit  of  affection,  and  sometimes 
of  delicate  and  romantic  tenderness,  not  to  be 
surpassed  in  modern  poetry,  and  which  the 
more  polished  strains  of  antiquity  have  seldom 
possessed. 

The  origin  of  this  amatory  character  in  the 
rustic  muse  of  Scotland,  or  of  the  greater  num- 
ber of  these  love- songs  themselves,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  trace  ; they  have  accumulated  in  the 
silent  lapse  of  time,  and  it  is  now  perhaps  im- 
possible to  give  an  arrangement  of  them  in  the 
order  of  their  date,  valuable  as  such  a record  of 
taste  and  manners  would  be.  Their  present  in- 
fluence on  the  character  of  the  nation  is,  how- 
ever, great  and  striking.  To  them  we  must  at- 
tribute, in  a great  measure,  the  romantic  pas- 
sion which  so  often  characterizes  the  attachments 
of  the  humblest  of  the  people  of  Scotland,  to  a 
degree,  that  if  we  mistake  not,  is  seldom  found 
in  the  same  rank  of  society  in  other  countries. 
The  pictures  of  love  and  happiness  exhibited  in 
their  rural  songs  are  early  impressed  on  the 
mind  of  the  peasant,  and  are  rendered  more  at- 
tractive from  the  music  with  which  they  are 
united.  They  associate  themselves  with  his 
own  youthful  emotions  ; they  elevate  the  object 
as  well  as  the  nature  of  his  attachment ; and  give 
to  the  impressions  of  sense  the  beautiful  colors 
of  imagination.  Hence  in  the  course  of  his  pas- 
sion, a Scottish  peasant  often  exhibits  a spirit  of 
adventure,  of  which  a Spanish  cavalier  need  not 
be  ashamed.  After  the  labors  of  the  day  are 
over,  he  sets  out  for  the  habitation  of  his  mis- 
tress, perhaps  at  many  miles  distance,  regard- 
less of  the  length  or  the  dreariness  of  the  way. 
He  approaches  her  in  secresy,  under  the  dis- 
guise of  night.  A signal  at  the  door  or  window, 
perhaps  agreed  on,  and  understood  by  none  but 
her,  gives  information  of  his  arrival;  and  some- 
times it  is  repeated  again  and  again,  before  the 
capricious  fair  one  will  obey  the  summons.  But 
if  she  favors  his  addresses,  she  escapes  unob- 
served, and  receives  the  vows  of  her  lover  un- 
der the  gloom  of  twilight,  or  the  deeper  shade 
of  night.  Interviews  of  this  kind  are  the  sub- 
jects of  many  of  the  Scottish  songs,  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  which  Burns  has  imitated  or 
improved.  In  the  art  which  they  celebrate  he  was 
perfectly  skilled  ; he  knew  and  had  practiced  all 
its  mysteries.  Intercourse  of  this  sort  is  indeed 
universal  even  in  the  humblest  condition  of  man 
in  every  region  of  the  earth.  But  it  is  not  un- 
natural to  suppose  that  it  may  exist  in  a greater 
degree,  and  in  a more  romantic  form,  among 
the  peasantry  of  a country  who  are  supposed  to 
be  more  than  commonly  instructed  ; who  find 
in  their  rural  songs  expressions  for  their  youth- 
ful emotions:  and  in  whom  the  embers  of  pas- 
sion are  continually  fanned  by  the  breathings  of 
a music  full  of  tenderness  and  sensibility.  The 
direct  influence  of  physical  causes  on  the  at- 
tachment between  the  sexes  is  comparatively 
small,  but  it  is  modified  by  moral  causes  beyond 


any  other  affection  of  the  mind.  Of  these  music 
and  poetry  are  the  chief.  Among  the  snows  of 
Lapland,  and  under  the  burning  sun  of  Angola, 
the  savage  is  seen  hastening  to  his  mistress,  and 
every  where  he  beguiles  the  weariness  of  his 
journey  with  poetry  and  song.* 

In  appreciating  the  happiness  and  virtue  of  a 
community,  there  is  perhaps  no  single  criterion 
on  which  so  much  dependence  may  be  placed, 
as  the  state  of  the  intercourse  between  the  sexes. 
Where  this  displays  ardor  of  attachment,  ac- 
companied by  purity  of  conduct,  the  character 
and  the  influence  of  woman  rise  in  society,  our 
imperfect  nature  mounts  in  the  scale  of  moral 
excellence ; and,  from  the  source  of  this  single 
affection,  a stream  of  felicity  descends,  which 
branches  into  a thousand  rivulets  that  enrich  and 
adorn  the  field  of  life.  Where  the  attachment 
between  the  sexes  sinks  into  an  appetite,  the 
heritage  of  our  species  is  comparatively  poor, 
and  man  approaches  the  condition  of  the  brutes 
that  perish.  “If  we  could  with  safety  indulge 
the  pleasing  supposition  that  Fingal  lived  and 
that  Ossian  sung,”t  Scotland,  judging  from 
this  criterion,  might  be  considered  as  ranking 
high  in  happiness  and  virtue  in  very  remote 
ages.  To  appreciate  her  situation  by  the  same 
criterion  in  our  own  times,  would  be  a delicate 
and  a difficult  undertaking.  After  considering 
the  probable  influence  of  her  popular  songs  and 
her  national  music,  and  examining  how  far  the 
effects  to  be  expected  from  these  are  supported 
by  facts,  the  inquirer  would  also  have  to  exam- 
ine the  influence  of  other  causes,  and  particu- 
larly of  her  civil  and  ecclesiastical  institutions, 
by  which  the  character,  and  even  the  maimers 
of  a people,  though  silently  and  slowly,  are  of- 
ten powerfully  controlled.  In  the  point  of  view 
in  which  we  are  considering  the  subject,  the 
ecclesiastical  establishments  of  Scotland  may 
be  supposed  peculiarly  favorable  to  purity  of 
conduct.  The  dissoluteness  of  manners  among 
the  Catholic  clergy,  which  preceded,  and  in  some 
measure  produced  the  Reformation,  led  to  an 
extraordinary  strictness  on  the  part  of  the  re- 
formers, and  especially  in  that  particular  in 
which  the  licentiousness  of  the  clergy  had  been 
carried  to  its  greatest  height — the  intercourse 
between  the  sexes.  On  this  point,  as  on  all 
others  connected  with  austerity  of  manners, 
the  disciples  of  Calvin  assumed  a greater  sever- 
ity than  those  of  the  Protestant  episcopal  church. 
The  punishment  of  illicit  connection  between 
the  sexes,  was,  throughout  all  Europe,  a pro- 
vince which  the  clergy  assumed  to  themselves; 
and  the  church  of  Scotland,  which  at  the  Re- 
formation renounced  so  many  powers  and  priv- 
ileges. at  that  period  took  this  crime  under  her 
more  especial  jurisdiction. t \V here  pregnancy 
takes  place  without  marriage,  the  condition  of 
the  female  causes  the  discovery,  and  it  is  on 
her,  therefore,  in  the  first  instance,  that  the  cler- 
gy and  elders  of  the  church  exercise  their  zeal. 
After  examination,  before  the  kirk-session, 
touching  the  circumstances  of  her  guilt,  she  must 
endure  a public  penance,  and  sustain  a public  re- 
buke from  the  pulpit,  for  three  Sabbaths  succes- 

*The  North  American  Indians,  among  whom  the 
attachment  between  the  sexes  is  said  to  be  weak, 
and  love,  in  the  purer  sense  of  the  word,  unknown, 
seem  nearly  unacquainted  with  the  charms  of  poetry 
and  music.  See  Weld's  Tour. 

f Gibbon.  $ See  Appendix,  No.  I.,  Note  C. 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


sively,  in  the  face  of  the  congregation  to  which 
she  belongs,  and  thus  have  her  weakness  expos- 
ed, and  her  shame  blazoned.  The  sentence  is 
the  same  with  respect  to  the  male;  but  how 
much  lighter  the  punishment!  It  is  well  known 
that  this  dreadfui  law.  worthy  of  the  iron  minds 
of  Calvin  and  of  Knox,  has  often  led  to  conse- 
quences, at  the  very  mention  of  which  human 
nature  recoils. 

While  the  punishment  of  incontinence  pre- 
scribed by  the  institutions  of  Scotland  is  severe, 
the  culprits  have  an  obvious  method  of  avoid-  i 
ing  it  afforded  them  by  the  law  respecting  mar- 
riage. the  validity  of  which  requires  neither  the 
ceremonies  of  the  church,  nor  any  other  cere- 
monies. but  simply  the  deliberate  acknowledg- 
ment of  each  other  as  husband  and  wife,  made 
by  the  parties  before  witnesses,  or  in  any  other 
way  that  gives  legal  evidence  of  such  an  ac- 
knowledgment having  taken  place.  And  as  the 
parties  themselves  fix  the  date  of  their  marriage, 
an  opportunity  is  thus  given  to  avoid  the  punish- 
ment. and  repair  the  consequences  of  illicit  grat- 
ification. Such  a degree  of  laxity  respecting  so 
serious  a contract  might  produce  much  confu- 
sion in  the  descent  of  property,  without  a still 
farther  indulgence;  but  the  law  of  Scotland 
legitimating  all  children  born  before  wedlock, 
on  the  subsequent  marriage  of  their  parents, 
renders  the  actual  date  of  the  marriage  itself  of 
little  consequence.*  Marriages  contracted  in 
Scotland  without  the  ceremonies  of  the  church, 
are  considered  as  irregular,  and  the  parties  us- 
ually submit  to  a rebuke  for  their  conduct,  in 
the  face  of  their  respective  congregations,  which 
is  not  however  necessary  to  render  the  mar- 
riage valid.  Burns,  whose  marriage,  it  will  ap- 
pear, was  irregular , does  not  seem  to  have  un- 
dergone this  part  of  the  discipline  of  the  church. 

Thus,  though  the  institutions  of  Scotland  are 
in  many  particulars  favorable  to  a conduct  among 
the  peasantry  founded  on  foresight  and  reflec- 
tion, on  the  subject  of  marriage  the  reverse  of 
this  is  true.  Irregular  marriages,  it  may  be  nat- 
urally supposed,  are  often  improvident  ones,  in 
whatever  rank  of  society  they  occur.  The 
children  of  such  marriages,  poorly  endowed  by 
their  parents,  find  a certain  degree  of  instruction 
ot  easy  acquisition  ; but  the  comforts  of  life,  and 
the  gratifications  of  ambition,  they  find  of  more 
difficult  attainment  in  their  native  soil ; and  thus 
the  marriage  laws  of  Scotland  conspire  with 
other  circumstances,  to  produce  that  habit  of 
emigration,  and  spirit  of  adventure,  for  which 
the  people  are  so  remarkable. 

The  manners  and  appearance  of  the  Scottish 
peasantry  do  not  bespeak  to  a stranger  the  de- 
gree of  their  cultivation.  In  their  own  country, 
their  industry  is  inferior  to  that  of  the  same  de- 
scription of  men  in  the  southern  division  of  the 
island.  Industry  and  the  useful  arts  reached 
Scotland  later  than  England;  and  though  their  ad- 
vance has  been  rapid  there, the  effects  producedare 
as  yet  far  inferior,  both  in  reality  and  appearance. 
The  Scottish  farmers  have  in  general  neither 
the  opulence  nor  the  comforts  of  those  of  Eng- 
land, neither  vest  the  same  capital  in  the  soil, 
nor  receive  from  it  the  same  return.  Their  cloth- 
ing, their  food,  and  their  habitations,  are  almost 
every  where  inferior. t Their  appearance  in 

* See  Appendix,  No.  I.,  Note  D. 

t These  remarks  are  confined  to  the  class  of  far- 
mers, the  same  corresponding  inferiority  will  not  be 


163 

these  respects  corresponds  with  the  appearance 
of  their  country  ; and  under  the  operation  of  pa- 
tient indusrry,  both  are  improving.  Industry 
and  the  useful  arts  came  later  into  Scotland  than 
into  England,  because  the  security  of  property 
came  later.  With  causes  of  internal  agitation 
and  warfare,  similar  to  those  which  occurred  to 
the  more  southern  nation,  the  people  of  Scotland 
were  exposed  to  more  imminent  hazards,  and 
more  extensive  and  destructive  spoliation,  from 
external  war.  Occupied  in  the  maintainance  of 
their  independence  against  their  more  powerful 
neighbors,  to  this  were  necessarily  sacrificed  the 
arts  of  peace,  and  at  certain  periods,  the  flower 
of  their  population.  And  when  the  union  of  the 
crowns  produced  a security  from  national  wars 
with  England,  for  the  century  succeeding,  the 
civil  wars  common  to  both  divisions  of  the 
island,  and  the  dependence  of  the  Scottish  coun- 
cils on  those  of  the  more  powerful  kingdom, 
counteracted  this  disadvantage.  Even  the  un- 
ion of  the  British  nation  was  not,  from  obvious 
causes,  immediately  followed  by  all  the  benefits 
which  it  was  ultimately  destined  to  produce. 
At  length,  however,  these  benefits  are  distinct- 
ly felt,  and.  generally  acknowledged.  Property 
is  secure  ; manufactures  and  commerce  increas- 
ing ; and  agriculture  is  rapidly  improving  in 
Scotland.  As  yet,  indeed,  the  farmers  are  not, 
in  general,  enabled  to  make  improvements  out 
of  their  own  capitals,  as  in  England  ; but  the 
landholders  who  have  seen  and  felt  the  advanta- 
ges resulting  from  them,  contribute  towards 
them  with  a liberal  hand.  Hence  property,  as 
well  as  population,  is  accumulating  rapidly  on 
the  Scottish  soil;  and  the  nation,  enjoying  a great 
part  of  the  blessings  of  Englishmen,  and  re- 
taining several  of  their  own  happy  institutions, 
might  be  considered,  if  confidence  could  be 
placed  in  human  foresight,  to  be  as  yet  only  in 
an  early  stage  of  their  progress.  Yet  there  are 
obstructions  in  their  way.  To  the  cultivation  of 
the  soil  are  opposed  the  extent  and  the  strictness 
of  the  entails  ; to  the  improvement  of  the  people 
the  rapidly  increasing  use  of  spirituous  liquors,* 
a detestable  practice,  which  includes  in  its  con- 
sequences almost  every  evil,  physical  and  mor- 
al. The  peculiarly  social  disposition  of  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry  exposes  them  to  this  practice. 
This  disposition,  which  is  fostered  by  their  na- 
tional songs  and  music,  is  perhaps  characteristic 
of  the  nation  at  large.  Though  the  source  of 
many  pleasures,  it  counteracts  by  its  consequen- 
ces the  effects  of  their  patience,  industry,  and 
frugality,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  of  which 
those  especially  who  have  witnessed  the  progress 
of  Scotchmen  in  other  countries,  must  have 
known  many  striking  instances. 

Since  the  Union,  the  manners  and  language 
of  the  people  of  Scotland  have  no  longer  a stan- 
dard among  themselves,  but  are  tried  by  the 
standard  of  the  nation  to  which  they  are  united. 
Though  their  habits  are  far  from  being  flexible, 
yet  it  is  evident  that  their  manners  and  dialect 

found  in  the  condition  of  the  cottagers  and  laborers, 
at  least  in  the  article  of  food,  as  those  who  examine 
this  subject  impartially  will  soon  d scover. 

* The  amount  of  duty  on  spirits  distilled  in  Scotland 
is  now  upwards  of  2.30,000/.  annually.  In  1777,  it  did 
not  reach  8bOOZ.  The  rate  of  duties  has  indeed  been 
raised,  but  making  every  allowance,  the  increase  of 
consumption  must  be  enormous.  This  is  independ- 
ent of  the  duty  on  malt,  &c.,  malt  liquor,  imported 
spirits,  and  wine. 


. 1G4 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


are  undergoing  a rapid  change.  Even  the  far- 
mers of  the  present  day  appear  to  have  less  of 
the  peculiarities  of  their  country  in  their  speech, 
than  the  men  of  letters  in  the  last  generation. 
Burns,  who  never  left  the  island,  nor  penetrated 
farther  into  England  than  Carlisle  on  the  one 
hand,  or  Newcastle  on  the  other,  had  less  of  the 
Scottish  dialect  than  Iiume,  who  lived  many 
years  in  the  best  society  of  England  and  France: 
or  perhaps  than  Robertson,  who  wrote  the  Eng- 
lish language  in  a style  of  such  purity  ; and  if 
he  had  been  in  other  respects  fitted  to  take  a lead 
in  the  British  House  of  Commons,  his  pronun- 
ciation would  neither  have  fettered  his  elo- 
quence, nor  deprived  it  of  its  due  effect. 

A striking  particular  in  the  character  of  the 
Scottish  peasantry,  is  one  which  it  is  hoped 
■will  not  be  lost — the  strength  of  their  domestic 
attachments.  The  privation  to  which  many  pa- 
rents submit  for  the  good  of  their  children,  and 
particularly  to  obtain  for  them  instruction,  which 
they  consider  as  the  chief  good,  has  already  been 
noticed.  If  their  children  live  and  prosper,  they 
have  their  certain  reward,  not  merely  as  witness- 
ing, but  as  sharing  of  their  prosperity.  Even  in 
the  humblest  ranks  of  the  peasantry,  the  earn- 
ings of  the  children  may  generally  be  considered 
as  at  the  disposal  of  their  parents  ; perhaps  in  no 
country  is  so  large  a portion  of  the  wages  of 
labor  applied  to  the  support  and  comfort  of  those 
whose  days  of  labor  are  past.  A similar  strength 
of  attachment  extends  through  all  the  domestic 
relations. 

Our  poet  partook  largely  of  this  amiable  char- 
acteristic of  his  humble  compeers  ; he  was  also 
strongly  tinctured  with  another  striking  feature 
which  belongs  to  them,  a partiality  for  his  native 
country,  of  which  many  proofs  may  be  found  in 
his  writings.  This,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  a 
very  strong  and  general  sentiment  among  the 
natives  of  Scotland,  differing,  however,  in  its 
character,  according  to  the  character  of  the  dif- 
ferent minds  in  which  it  is  found  ; in  some  ap- 
pearing a selfish  prejudice,  in  others  a generous 
affection. 

An  attachment  to  the  land  of  their  birth  is,  in- 
deed, common  to  all  men.  It  is  found  among 
the  inhabitants  of  every  region  of  the  earth, 
from  the  arctic  to  the  antarctic  circle,  in  all  the 
vast  variety  of  climate,  of  surface,  and  of  civili- 
zation. To  analyze  this  general  sentiment,  to 
trace  it  through  the  mazes  of  association  up  to 
the  primary  affection  in  which  it  has  its  source, 
would  neither  be  a difficult  nor  an  unpleasing 
labor.  On  the  first  consideration  of  the  subject, 
we  should  perhaps  expect  to  find  this  attachment 
strong  in  proportion  to  the  physical  advantages 
of  the  soil  ; but  inquiry,  far  from  confirming 
this  supposition,  seems  rather  to  lead  to  an  op- 
posite conclusion.  In  those  fertile  regions  where 
beneficent  nature  yields  almost  spontaneously 
whatever  is  necessary  to  human  wants,  patriot- 
ism, as  well  as  every  other  generous  sentiment, 
seems  weak  and  languid.  In  countries  less  rich- 
ly endowed,  where  the  comforts,  and  even  ne- 
cessaries of  life  must  be  purchased  by  patient  toil, 
the  affections  of  the  mind,  as  well  as  the  facul- 
ties of  the  understanding, improve  underexertion, 
and  patriotism  flourishes  amidst  its  kindred  vir- 
tues. Where  it  is  necessary  to  combine  for  mu- 
tual defence,  as  well  as  for  the  supply  of  com- 
mon wants,  mutual  good-will  springs  from  mu- 
tual difficulties  and  labors,  the  social  affections 


unfold  themselves,  and  extend  rrom  the  men 
with  whom  we  live,  to  the  soil  on  which  we 
tread.  It  will  perhaps  be  found  indeed,  that  our 
affections  cannot  be  orignally  called  forth,  but 
by  objects  capable,  or  supposed  capable,  of  feel- 
ing our  sentiments,  and  of  returning  them  : but 
when  once  excited  they  are  strengthened  by  ex- 
ercise, they  are  expanded  by  the  powers  of  im- 
agination, and  seize  more  especially  on  those  in- 
animate parts  of  creation,  which  form  the  thea- 
tre on  which  we  have  first  felt  the  alternations 
of  joy,  and  sorrow,  and  first  tasted  the  sweets  of 
symphathy  and  regard.  If  this  reasoning  be 
just,  the  love  of  our  country,  although  modified, 
and  even  extinguished  in  individuals  by  the 
chances  and  changes  of  life,  may  be  presumed, 
in  our  general  reasonings,  to  be  strong  among  a 
people  in  proportion  to  their  social,  and  more 
especially  to  their  domestic  effections.  In  free 
governments  it  is  found  more  active  than  in 
despotic  ones,  because  as  the  individual  becomes 
of  more  consequence  in  the  community,  the  com- 
munity becomes  of  more  consequence  to  him. 
In  small  states  it  is  generally  more  active  than 
in  large  ones,  for  the  same  reason,  and  also  be- 
cause the  independence  of  a small  community 
being  maintained  with  difficulty,  and  frequently 
endangered,  sentiments  of  patriotism  are  more 
frequently  excited.  It  may  also  be  remarked, 
that  mountainous  countries  are  often  peculiarly 
calculated  to  nourish  sentiments  of  national  pride 
and  independence,  from  the  influence  of  history 
on  the  affections  of  the  mind.  In  such  countries, 
from  their  natural  strength,  inferior  nations  have 
maintained  their  independence  against  theirmore 
powerful  neighbors,  and  valor,  in  all  ages,  has 
made  its  most  successful  efforts  against  oppres- 
sion. Such  countries  present  the  fields  of  battle, 
where  the  tide  of  invasion  was  rolled  back,  and 
where  the  ashes  of  those  rest,  who  have  died 
in  defence  of  their  nation. 

The  operation  of  the  various  causes  ^ve  have 
mentioned  is  doubtless  more  general  and  more 
permanent,  where  the  scenery  of  a country,  the 
peculiar  manners  of  its  inhabitants,  and  the 
martial  achievements  of  their  ancestors  are  em- 
bodied in  national  songs,  and  united  to  national 
music. 

If  this  reasoning  be  just,  it  will  explain  to  us 
why,  among  the  natives  of  Scotland,  even  of 
cultivated  minds,  we  so  generally  find  a partial 
attachment  to  the  land  of  their  birth,  and  why 
this  is  so  strongly  discoverable  in  the  writings 
of  Burns,  who  joined  to  the  higher  powers  of 
the  understanding  the  most  ardent  affections. 
Let  not  men  of  reflection  think  it  a superfluous 
labor  to  trace  the  rise  and  progress  of  a character 
like  his.  Born  in  the  condition  of  a peasant,  he 
rose  by  the  force  of  his  mind  into  distinction 
and  influence,  and  in  his  works  has  exhibited 
what  are  so  rarely  found,  the  charms  of  original 
genius.  With  a deep  insight  into  the  human 
heart,  his  poetry  exhibits  high  powers  of  im- 
agination— it  displays,  and  as  it  were  embalms, 
the  peculiar  manners  of  his  country  ; and  it 
may  be  considered  as  a monument,  not  to  his  own 
name  only,  but  to  the  expiring  genius  of  an  an- 
cient and  once  independent  nation.  In  relating 
the  incidents  of  his  life,  candor  will  prevent  us 
from  dwelling  invidiously  on  those  failings  which 
justice  forbids  us  to  conceal ; we  will  tread 
lightly  over  his  yet  warm  ashes,  and  respect  the 
laurels  that  shelter  his  untimely  grave. 


THE 


THE  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS, 

BY  DR.  CURRIE. 


Robert  Burns  was,  as  is  well  known,  the  i 
son  of  a farmer  in  Ayrshire,  and  afterwards  I 
himself  a farmer  there ; but,  having  been  un-  i 
successful,  he  was  about  to  emigrate  to  Jamaica. 
He  had  previously,  however,  attracted  some 
notice  by  his  poetical  talents  in  the  vicinity 
where  he  lived ; and  having  published  a small 
volume  of  his  poems  at  Kilmarnock,  this  drew 
upon  him  more  general  attention.  In  conse- 
quence of  the  encouragement  he  received,  he 
repaired  to  Edinburgh,  and  there  published  by 
subscription,  an  improved  and  enlarged  edition 
of  his  poems,  which  met  with  extraordinary 
success.  By  the  profits  arising  from  the  sale 
of  this  edition,  he  was  enabled  to  enter  on  a 
farm  in  Dumfries-shire ; and  having  married 
a person  to  whom  he  had  been  long  attached, 
he  retired  to  devote  the  remainder  of  his  life  to 
agriculture.  He  was  again,  however,  unsuccess- 
ful ; and,  abandoning  his  farm,  he  removed  into 
the  town  of  Dumfries,  where  he  filled  an  in- 
ferior office  in  the  excise,  and  where  he  termin- 
ated his  life,  in  July,  1796,  in  his  thirty-eighth 
year. 

The  strength  and  originality  of  his  genius 
procured  him  the  notice  of  many  persons  dis- 
tinguished in  the  republic  of  letters,  and,  among 
others,  that  of  Dr.  Moore,  well  known  for  his 
Views  of  Society  and  Manners  on  the  Conti- 
nent of  Europe,  Zeluco,  and  various  others  works. 
To  this  gentleman  our  poet  addressed  a letter, 
after  his  first  visit  to  Edinburgh,  giving  a his- 
tory of  his  life,  up  to  the  period  of  his  writing. 
In  a composition  never  intended  to  see  the  light, 
elegance,  or  perfect  correctness  of  composition 
will  not  be  expected.  These,  however,  will 
be  compensated  by  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
our  poet,  as  he  gives  the  incidents  of  his  life, 
unfold  the  peculiarities  of  his  character  with  all 
the  careless  vigour  and  open  sincerity  of  his 
mind. 

Mauchline , 2d  August , 1787. 

*'  Sir, 

“ For  some  months  past  I have  been  ram- 
bling over  the  country  ; but  I am  now  confined 
with  some  lingering  complaints,  originating,  as 
I take  it,  in  the  stomach.  To  divert  my  spirits 
a little  in  this  miserable  fog  of  ennui , I have 
taken  a whim  to  give  you  a history  of  myself. 
My  name  has  made  some  little  noise  in  this 
country  ; you  have  done  me  the  honor  to  interest 
yourself  very  warmly  in  my  behalf;  and  I think 
a faithful  account  of  what  character  of  a man 
I am,  and  how  I came  by  that  character,  may 
perhaps  amuse  you  in  an  idle  moment.  I will 


give  you  an  honest  narrative  ; though  I know  it 
will  be  often  at  my  own  expense ; lor  I assure 
you,  Sir,  I have,  like  Solomon,  whose  character, 
excepting  in  the  trifling  affair  of  wisdom,  I some- 
times think  I resemble — 1 have,  I say,  like  him, 
turned  my  eyes  to  behold  madness  and  folly,  and, 
like  him,  too,  frequently  shaken  hands  with  their 
intoxicating  friendship.  * * * After  you 

have  perused  these  pages,  should  you  think  them 
trifling  and  impertinent,  I only  beg  leave  to  tell 
you,  that  the  poor  author  wrote  them  under 
some  twitching  qualms  of  conscience,  arising 
from  suspicion  that  he  was  doing  what  he  ought 
not  to  do  ; a predicament  he  has  more  than  once 
been  in  before. 

“ I have  not  the  most  distant  pretensions  to 
assume  that  character  which  the  pye-coated 
guardians  of  escutcheons  call  a Gentleman. 
When  at  Edinburgh  last  winter,  I got  acquaint- 
ed in  the  Herald’s  Office  ; and,  looking  through 
that  granary  of  honors,  I there  found  almost 
every  name  in  the  kingdom  ; but  for  me, 

“ My  ancient  but  ignoble  blood 

Has  crept  thro’  scoundrels  ever  since  the  flood.” 

“ My  father  was  of  the  north  of  Scotland,  the 
son  of  a farmer,  and  was  thrown  by  early  mis- 
fortunes on  the  world  at  large;  where,  after  many 
years’  wanderings  and  sojournings,  he  picked 
up  a pretty  large  quantity  of  observation  and  ex- 
perience, to  which  I am  indebted  for  most  of  my 
little  pretensions  to  wisdom.  I have  met  with 
few  who  understood  men,  their  manners,  and 
their  ways,  equal  to  him  ; but  stubborn,  ungain- 
ly integrity,  and  headlong,  ungovernable  irasci- 
bility, are  disqualifying  circumstances ; conse- 
quently I was  born  a very  poor  man’s  son.  For 
the  first  six  or  seven  years  of  my  life,  my  father 
was  gardener  to  a very  worthy  gentleman  of 
small  estate  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ayr.  Had 
he  continued  in  that  station,  I must  have  march- 
ed off  to  be  one  of  the  little  underlings  about  a 
farm-house  ; but  it  was  his  dearest  wish  and 
prayer  to  keep  his  children  under  his  own  eye 
till  they  could  discern  between  good  and  evil ; 
so  with  the  assistance  of  his  generous  master, 
my  father  ventured  on  a small  farm  on  his  estate. 
At  those  years  I was  by  no  means  a favorite 
with  any  body.  I was  a good  deal  noted  for  a 
retentive  memory,  a stubborn,  sturdy  something 
in  rny  disposition,  and  an  enthusiastic  ideot*  pi- 
ety. I say  ideot  piety,  because  I was  then  but 
a child.  Though  it  cost  the  schoolmaster  some 
thrashings.  I made  an  excellent  English  schol- 
Idiot  for  idiotic, 


166 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ar  ; and  by  the  time  I was  ten  or  eleven  years 
of  age,  I was  a critic  in  substantives,  verbs,  and 
particles.  In  my  infant  and  boyish  days,  too,  I 
owed  much  to  an  old  woman  who  resided  in  the 
family,  remarkable  for  her  ignorance,  credulity 
and  superstition.  She  had,  I suppose,  the  lar- 
gest collection  in  the  country  of  tales  and  songs, 
concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies,  brownies, 
witches,  warlocks,  spunkies,  kelpies,  elf-can- 
dles, dead-lights,  wraiths,  apparitions,  cantraips, 
giants,  enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and  other 
trumpery.  This  cultivated  the  latent  seeds  of 
poetry  ; but  had  so  strong  an  effect  on  my  imag- 
ination, that  to  this  hour,  in  my  nocturnal  ram- 
bles, I sometimes  keep  a sharp  look-out  in  sus- 
picious places  : and  though  nobody  can  be  more 
sceptical  than  I am  in  such  matters,  yet  it  often 
takes  an  effort  of  philosophy  to  shake  off  these 
idle  terrors.  The  earliest  composition  that  I 
recollect  taking  pleasure  in,  was  The  Visio?i  of 
Mizra,  and  a hymn  of  Addison’s,  beginning, 
How  are  thy  servants  blest,  0 Lord  ! I particu- 
larly remember  one  half-stanza,  which  was  mu- 
sic to  my  boyish  ear — 

“ For  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  on  the  broken  wave — .;5 
I met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason's  English 
Collection,  one  of  my  school-books.  The  two 
first  books  that  ever  I read  in  private,  and  which 
gave  me  mo.re  pleasure  than  any  two  books  I 
ever  read  since,  were  The  Life  of  Hannibal,  and 
The  History  of  Sir  William,  Wallace.  Hanni- 
bal gave  my  young  ideas  such  a turn,  that  I used 
to  strut  in  raptures  up  and  down  after  the  re- 
cruiting drum  and  bag-pipe,  and  wish  myself 
tall  enough  to  be  a soldier  ; while  the  story  of 
Wallace  poured  a Scottish  prejudice  into  my 
veins,  which  will  boil  along  there  till  the  flood- 
gates of  life  shut  in  eternal  rest. 

“ Polemical  divinity  about  this  time  was  put- 
ting the  country  half-mad;  and  I,  ambitious  of 
shining  in  conversation  parties  on  Sundays,  be- 
tween sermons,  at  funerals,  &c.,  used,  a few 
years  afterwards,  to  puzzle  Calvinism  with  so 
much  heat  and  indiscretion,  that  I raised  a hue 
and  cry  of  heresy  against  me,  which  has  not  ceas- 
ed to  this  hour. 

“ xWy  vicinity  to  Ayr  was  of  some  advantage 
to  me.  My  social  disposition,  when  not  check- 
ed by  some  modifications  of  spirited  pride,  was, 
like  our  catechism-definition  of  infinitude,  with- 
out bounds  or  limits.  I formed  connections  with 
other  younkers  who  possessed  superior  advan- 
tages, the  you7igling  actors,  who  were  busy  in 
the  rehearsal  of  parts  in  which  they  were  short- 
ly to  appear  on  the  stage  of  life,  where,  alas  ! I 
was  destined  to  drudge  behind  the  scenes.  It 
is  not  commonly  at  this  green  age  that  our 
young  gentry  have  a just  sense  of  the  immense 
distance  between  them  and  their  ragged  play- 
fellow’s. It  takes  a fewr  dashes  into  the  world, 
to  give  the  young  great  man  that  proper,  decent, 
unnoticing  disregard  for  the  poor,  insignificant, 
stupiddevils.the  mechanics  and  peasantryaround 
him,  who  were  perhaps  born  in  the  same  vil- 
lage. My  young  superiors  never  insulted  the 
clouterly  appearance  of  my  ploughboy  carcass, 
the  two  extremes  of  which  were  often  exposed 
to  all  the  inclemencies  of  all  the  seasons.  They 
would  give  me  stray  volumes  of  books;  among 
them,  even  then,  I could  pick  up  some  observa- 
tions ; and  one,  whose  heart  I am  sure  not  even 
the  Munny  Begum  scenes  have  tainted,  helped 


me  to  a little  French.  Parting  with  these  my 
young  friends  and  benefactors,  as  they  occasion- 
ally went  off  for  the  East  or  West  Indies,  was 
often  to  me  a sore  affliction  ; but  I was  soon 
called  to  more  serious  evils.  My  father’s  gen- 
erous master  died;  the  farm  proved  a ruinous 
bargain  ; and  to  clench  the  misfortune,  we  fell 
into  the  hands  of  a factor,  w’ho  sat  for  the  pic- 
ture I have  drawn  of  one  in  my  Tale  of  Twa 
Dogs.  My  father  was  advanced  in  life  when 
he  married  ; I was  the  eldest  of  seven  children; 
and  he,  worn  out  by  early  hardships,  was  unfit 
for  labor.  My  father’s  spirit  was  soon  irritated, 
but  not  easily  broken.  There  was  a freedom 
in  his  lease  in  two  years  more ; and,  to  weath- 
er these  two  years,  we  retrenched  our  expenses. 
W e lived  very  poorly  : I was  a dexterous  plough- 
man, for  my  age  ; and  the  next  eldest  to  me  was 
a brother  (Gilbert),  who  could  drive  the  plough 
very  well,  and  help  me  to  thrash  the  corn.  A 
novel-writer  might  perhaps  have  viewed  these 
scenes  with  some  satisfaction ; but  so  did  not 
I ; my  indignation  yet  boils  at  the  recollection 
of  the  s -1  factor’s  insolent  threatening  let- 
ters, which  used  to  set  us  all  in  tears. 

“ This  kind  of  life — the  cheerless  gloom  of  a 
hermit,  with  the  unceasing  toil  of  a galley-slave, 
brought  me  to  my  sixteenth  year  ; a little  before 
which  period  I first  committed  the  sin  of  Rhyme. 
You  know  our  country  custom  of  coupling  a 
man  and  woman  together  as  partners  in  the  la- 
bors of  the  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth  autumn 
my  partner  was  a bewitching  creature,  a year 
younger  than  myself.  My  scarcity  of  English 
denies  me  the  power  of  doing  her  justice  in  that 
language  ; but  you  know  the  Scottish  idiom — 
she  was  a bonnie,  sweet,  sonsie  lass.  In  short, 
she  altogether,  unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated 
me  in  that  delicious  passion,  which  in  spite  of 
acid  disappointment,  gin-horse  prudence,  and 
book-worm  philosophy,  I hold  to  be  the  first  of 
human  joys,  our  dearest  blessing  here  below  ! 
How  she  caught  the  contagion  I cannot  tell  : 
you  medical  people  talk  much  of  infection  from 
breathing  the  same  air,  the  touch,  &c. ; but  I 
never  expressly  said  I loved  her.  Indeed  I did 
not  know  myself  why  I liked  so  much  to 
loiter  behind  with  her,  when  returning  in  the 
evening  from  our  labors  ; why  the  tone  of  her 
voice  made  my  heart-strings  thrill  like  an  iEo- 
lian  harp  ; and  particularly  why  my  pulse  beat 
such  a furious  ratan  when  I looked  and  fingered 
over  her  little  hand  to  pick  out  the  cruel  nettle 
stings  and  thistles.  Among  her  other  love-in- 
spiring qualities,  she  sung  sweetly  ; and  it  was 
her  favorite  reel,  to  which  I attempted  giving  an 
embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme.  I w'as  not  so  pre- 
sumptuous as  to  imagine  that  I could  make  ver- 
ses like  printed  ones,  composed  by  men  who 
had  Greek  and  Latin  ; but  my  girl  sung  a song 
which  was  said  to  be  composed  by  a small  coun- 
try laird’s  son,  on  one  of  his  father’s  maids, 
with  whom  he  was  in  love  ! and  I saw  no  reas- 
on why  I might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he  ; for, 
excepting  that  he  could  smear  sheep,  and  cast 
peats,  his  father  living  in  the  moorlands,  he  had 
no  more  scholar-craft  than  myself.* 

“ Thus  with  me  began  love  and  poetry  : 
which  at  times  have  been  my  only,  and,  till  with- 
in the  last  twelve  months,  have  been  my  highest 
enjoyment.  My  father  struggled  on  till  he 
reached  the  freedom  in  his  lease,  when  he  en- 
* See  Appendix.  No.  II.,  Note  A. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


tered  on  a larger  farm,  about  ten  miles  farther 
in  the  country.  The  nature  of  the  bargain  he 
made  was  such  as  to  throw  a little  ready  money 
into  his  hands  at  the  commencement  of  his  lease, 
otherwise  the  allair  would  have  been  impracti- 
cable. For  four  years  we  lived  comfortably 
here  ; but  a difference  commencing  between  him 
and  his  landlord  as  to  terms,  after  three  years’ 
tossing  and  whirling  in  the  vortex  of  litigation, 
my  father  was  just  saved  from  the  horrors  of  a 
jail  by  a consumption,  which,  after  two  years’ 
promises,  kindly  stepped  in  and  carried  him 
away,  to  where  the  wicked  cease  f rom  troubling , 
and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

“ It  is  during  the  time  that  we  lived  on  this 
farm,  that  my  little  story  is  most  eventful.  I 
was.  at  the  beginning  of  this  period,  perhaps  the 
most  ungainly,  awkward  boy  in  the  parish — no 
solitaire  was  less  acquainted  with  the  ways  of 
the  world.  What  I knew  of  ancient  story  was 
gathered  from  Salmon's  and  Guthrie  s geo- 
graphical grammars  ; and  the  ideas  I had  formed 
of  modern  manners,  of  literature,  and  criticism, 

I got  from  the  Spectator . These,  with  Pope's 
IForA-s,  some  plays  of  Shakspeare,  Tull  and 
Dickson  on  Agriculture,  The  Pantheon,  Locke's 
Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding,  Stack- 
house's History  of  the  Bible.  Justice's  British 
Gardener's  Directory,  Bayle's  Lectures,  Allan 
Ramsay's  Works,  Taylor's  Scripture  Doctrine 
of  Original  Sin,  -4  Select  Collect  ion  of  English 
Songs,  and  Hervey's  Meditations,  had  formed 
the  whole  of  my  reading.  The  collection  of 
Songs  was  my  vade  mecum.  I pored  over  them 
driving  my  cart,  or  walking  to  labor,  song  by 
song,  and  verse  by  verse  : carefully  noting  the 
true,  tender,  or  sublime,  from  affectation  and  fus- 
tian. I am  convinced  I owe  to  this  practice 
much  of  my  critic  craft,  such  as  it  is. 

“ In  my  seventeenth  year,  to  give  my  man- 
ners a brush,  I went  to  a country  dancing  school. 
My  father  had  an  unaccountable  antipathy  against 
these  meetings  ; and  my  going  was,  what  to 
this  moment  I repent,  in  opposition  to  his  wishes. 
My  father,  as  I said  before,  was  subject  to 
strong  passions  ; from  that  instance  of  disobedi- 
ence in  me  he  took  a sort  of  dislike  to  me,  which 
I believe  was  one  cause  of  the  dissipation  which 
marked  my  succeeding  years.  I say  dissipa- 
tion, comparatively  with  the  strictness  and  so- 
briety, and  regularity  of  presbyterian  country 
life  ; for  though  the  Will  o’  Wisp  meteors  of 
thoughtless  whim  were  almost  the  sole  lights 
of  my  path,  yet  early  ingrained  piety  and  virtue 
kept  me  for  several  years  afterwards  within  the 
line  of  innocence.  The  great  misfortune  of  my 
life  was  to  want  an  aim.  I had  felt  early  some 
stirrings  of  ambition,  but  they  were  the  blind 
gropings  of  Homer’s  Cyclop  round  the  walls  of 
his  cave.  I saw  my  father’s  situation  entailed 
on  me  perpetual  labor.  The  only  two  openings 
by  which  I could  enter  the  temple  of  Fortune, 
was  the  gate  of  niggardly  economy,  or  the  path 
of  little  chicaning  bargain-making.  The  first 
is  so  contracted  an  aperture,  I never  could 
squeeze  myself  into  it ; — the  last  I always  hat- 
ed— there  was  contamination  in  the  very  en- 
trance ! Thus  abandoned  of  aim  or  view  in  life, 
with  a strong  appetite  for  sociability,  as  well 
from  native  hilarity  as  from  a pride  of  observa- 
tion and  remark  ; a constitutional  melancholy 
or  hypochondriasm  that  made  me  fly  from  sol-  j 
itude  ; add  to  these  incentives  to  social  life,  my  | 


1G7 

I reputation  for  bookish  knowledge,  a certain 
wild  logical  talent,  and  a strength  of  thought, 
something  like  the  rudiments  of  good  sense  ; 
and  it  will  not  seem  surprising  that  I was  gen- 
erally a welcome  guest  where  I visited,  or  any 
great  wonder  that,  always  where  two  or  three 
met  together,  there  was  I among  them.  But 
far  beyond  all  other  impulses  of  my  heart,  was 
an  penchant  a l' adorable  moitie  du  genre  humain. 
My  heart  was  completely  tinder,  and  eternally 
lighted  up  by  some  goddess  or  other ; and  as  in 
every  other  warfare  in  this  world,  my  fortune 
was  various,  sometimes  I was  received  with 
favor,  and  sometimes  I was  mortified  with  a 
repulse.  At  the  plough,  scythe  or  reaping  hook, 
I feared  no  competitor,  and  thus  I set  absolute 
want  at  defiance  ; and  as  I never  cared  farther 
for  my  labors  than  while  I was  in  actual  exercise, 
1 spent  the  evenings  in  the  way  after  my  own 
heart.  A country  lad  seldom  carries  on  a love- 
adventure  without  an  assisting  confidant.  I pos- 
sessed a curiosity,  zeal,  and  intrepid  dexterity, 
that  recommended  me  as  a proper  second  on 
these  occasions ; and  I dare  say,  I felt  as  much 
pleasure  in  being  in  the  secret  of  half  the  loves 
of  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  as  ever  did  states- 
man in  knowing  the  intrigues  of  half  the  courts 
of  Europe.  The  very  goose  feather  in  my  hand 
seems  to  know  instinctively  the  well-worn  path 
of  my  imagination,  the  favorite  theme  of  my 
song  : and  is  with  difficulty  restrained  from  giv- 
ing you  a couple  of  paragraphs  on  the  love-ad- 
ventures of  my  compeers,  the  humble  inmates 
of  the  farm-house,  and  cottage;  but  the  grave 
sons  of  science,  ambition,  or  avarice,  baptize 
these  things  by  the  name  of  Follies.  To  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  labor  and  poverty  they 
are  matters  of  the  most  serious  nature  ; to  them, 
the  ardent  hope,  the  stolen  interview,  the  tender 
farewell,  are  the  greatest  and  most  delicious 
parts  of  their  enjoyments. 

“Another  circumstance  in  my  life,  which 
made  some  alterations  in  my  mind  and  manners, 
was  that  I spent  my  nineteenth  summer  on  a 
smuggling  coast,  a good  distance  from  home,  at 
a noted  school,  to  learn  mensuration,  surveying, 
dialling,  &c.,  in  which  I made  a pretty  good 
progress.  But  I made  a greater  progress  in  the 
knowledge  of  mankind.  The  contraband  trade 
was  at  that  time  very  successful,  and  it  some- 
times happened  to  me  to  fall  in  with  those  who 
carried  it  on.  Scenes  of  swaggering,  riot  and 
roaring  dissipation  were  till  this  time  new  to 
me  ; but  I was  no  enemy  to  social  life.  Here, 
though  I learnt  to  fill  my  glass,  and  to  mix 
without  fear  in  a drunken  squabble,  yet  I went 
on  with  a high  hand  with  my  geometry,  till  the 
sun  entered  Virgo,  a month  which  is  always  a 
carnival  in  my  bosom,  when  a charming  Jilette 
who  lived  next  door  to  the  school,  overset  my 
trigonometry,  and  set  me  off  at  a tangent  from 
the  sphere  of  my  studies.  I,  however,  strug- 
gled on  with  my  sines  and  cosines  for  a few 
days  more  ; but  stepping  into  the  garden  one 
charming  noon  to  take  the  sun’s  altitude,  there 
I met  my  angel, 

“ Like  Proserpine,  gathering  flowers, 

Herself  a fairer  flower. ” 

“It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  doing  any  more 
good  at  school.  The  remaining  week  I staid, 
I did  nothing  but  craze  the  faculties  of  my  soul 
about  her,  or  steal  out  to  meet  her  ; and  the 
two  last  nights  of  my  stay  in  the  country,  had 


1C8 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


sleep  been  a mortal  sin,  (he  image  of  this  modest 
and  innocent  girl  had  kept  me  guiltless. 

“ i returned  home  very  considerably  improv- 
ed. My  reading  was  enlarged  with  the  very 
important  addition  of' Thomson’s  and  Shenstone’s 
Works;  I had  seen  human  nature  in  a new 
phasis ; and  I engaged  several  of  my  school-fel- 
lows to  keep  up  a literary  correspondence  with 
me.  This  improved  me  in  composition.  I had 
met  with  a collection  of  letters  by  the  wits  of 
Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  I pored  over  them 
most  devoutly  ; I kept  copies  of  any  of  my  own 
letters  that  pleased  me  ; and  a comparison  be- 
tween them  and  the  composition  of  most  of  my 
correspondents,  flattered  my  vanity.  I carried 
this  whim  so  far,  that  though  I had  not  three 
farthings’  worth  of  business  in  the  world,  yet 
almost  every  post  brought  me  as  many  letters 
as  if  I had  been  a broad  plodding  son  of  day- 
book and  ledger. 

My  life  flowed  on  much  in  the  same  course 
till  my  twenty-third  year.  Vive  l'  amour , et 
'rive  la  bagatelle,  were  my  sole  principles  of 
action.  The  addition  of  two  more  authors  to 
my  library  gave  me  great  pleasure ; Sterne  and 
M'Kenzie — Tristram  Shandy  and  The  31  an  of 
Feeling — were  my  bosom  favorites.  Poesy  was 
still  a darling  walk  for  my  mind  ; but  it  was 
only  indulged  in  according  to  the  humor  of  the 
hour.  I had  usually  half  a dozen  or  more  pieces 
on  hand  ; 1 took  up  one  or  other,  as  it  suited 
the  momentary  tone  of  the  mind,  and  dismissed 
the  work  as  it  bordered  on  fatigue.  My  pas- 
sions, when  once  lighted  up,  raged  like  so  many 
devils,  till  they  got  vent  in  rhyme,  and  then 
the  conning  over  my  verses,  like  a spell,  sooth- 
ed all  into  quiet ! None  of  the  rhymes  of  those 
days  are  in  print,  except  Winter,  a Dirge,  the 
eldest  of  my  printed  pieces  ; The  Death  of  Poor 
Mailie , John  Barleycorn,  and  songs  first,  second, 
and  third.  Song  second  was  the  ebullition  of 
that  passion  which  ended  the  forementioned 
school-business. 

“My  twenty-third  year  was  to  me  an  im- 
portant era.  Partly  through  whim,  and  partly 
that  I wished  to  set  about  doing  something  in 
life,  I joined  a flax-dresser  in  a neighboring 
town  (Irvine)  to  learn  his  trade.  This  was  an 
unlucky  affair.  My  * * * ; and  to  finish  the 
whole,  as  we  were  giving  a welcome  carousal 
to  the  new  year,  the  shop  took  fire,  and  burnt 
to  ashes ; and  I was  left  like  a true  poet,  not 
worth  a sixpence. 

“ I was  obliged  to  give  up  this  scheme  ; the 
clouds  of  misfortune  were  gathering  thick  round 
my  father’s  head  ; and  what  was  worst  of  all,  he 
was  visibly  far  gone  in  a consumption  ; and  to 
crown  my  distresses,  a belle  file  whom  I ador- 
ed, and  who  had  pledged  her  soul  to  meet  me 
in  the  field  of  matrimony,  jilted  me,  with  peculiar 
circumstances  of  mortification.  The  finishing 
evil  that  brought  up  the  rear  of  this  infernal  file, 
was  my  constitutional  melancholy,  being  in- 
creased to  such  a degree,  that  for  three  months 
I was  in  a state  of  mind  scarcely  to  be  envied 
by  the  hopeless  wretches  who  have  got  their 
mittimus — Depart  from  me,  ye  accursed! 

“From  this  adventure  I learned  something 
of  a town  life;  but  the  principal  thing  which 
gave  my  mind  a turn,  was  a friendship  I form- 
ed with  a young  fellow,  a very  noble  character, 
but  a hapless  son  of  misfortune.  He  was  the 
son  of  a simple  mechanic ; but  a greater  man 


in  the  neighborhood  taking  him  under  his  pa- 
tronage, gave  him  a genteel  education,  with  a 
view  of  bettering  his  situation  in  life.  The 
patron  dying  just  as  he  was  ready  to  launch  out 
into  the  world,  the  poor  fellow  in  despair  went 
to  sea  ; where,  after  a variety  of  good  and  ill 
fortune,  a little  before  I was  acquainted  with  him, 
he  had  been  set  on  shore  by  an  American  pri- 
vateer, on  the  wild  coast  of  Connaught,  strip- 
ped of  every  thing.  I cannot  quit  this  poor  fel- 
low’s story  without  adding,  that  he  is  at  this 
time  master  of  a large  West-Indiaman  belong- 
ing to  the  Thames. 

“ His  mind  was  fraught  with  independence, 
magnanimity,  and  every  manly  virtue.  I loved 
and  admired  him  to  a degree  of  enthusiasm,  and 
of  course  strove  to  imitate  him.  In  some  meas- 
ure I succeeded;  I had  pride  before,  but  he 
taught  it  to  flow  in  proper  channels.  His  know- 
ledge of  the  world  was  vastly  superior  to  mine, 
and  I was  all  attention  to  learn.  He  was  the 
only  man  I ever  saw  that  was  a greater  fool  than 
myself,  where  woman  was  the  presiding  star ; 
but  he  spoke  of  illicit  love  with  the  levity  of  a 
sailor,  which  hitherto  I had  regarded  with  hor- 
ror. Here  his  friendship  did  mo  mischief ; and 
the  consequence  was  that  soon  after  I resumed 
the  plough,  I wrote  the  Poet's  Welcome  * My 
reading  only  increased,  while  in  this  town,  by 
two  stray  volumes  of  Pamela,  and  one  of  Fer- 
dinand Count  Fathom,  which  gave  me  some  idea 
of  novels.  Rhyme,  except  some  religious  pie- 
ces that  are  in  print,  I had  given  up  ; but  meet- 
ing with  Ferguson  s Scottish  Poems,  I strung 
anew  my  wildly  sounding  lyre  with  emulating 
vigor.  When  my  father  died,  his  all  went 
among  the  hell-hounds  that  prowl  around  the 
kennel  of  justice ; but  we  made  a shift  to  collect 
a little  money  in  the  family  amongst  us,  with 
which,  to  keep  us  together,  my  brother  and  t 
took  a neighboring  farm.  My  brother  wanted 
my  hair-brained  imagination,  as  well  as  my  so- 
cial and  amorous  madness  ; but,  in  good  sense, 
and  every  sober  qualification,  he  was  far  my  su- 
perior. 

“I  entered  on  this  farm  with  a full  resolu- 
tion, Come,  go  to,  I will  be  wise  ! I read  farming 
books,  I calculated  crops  : I attended  markets  ; 
and,  in  short,  in  spite  of  the  devil,  and  the  world, 
and  the  fiesh , I believe  I should  have  been  a 
wise  man  ; but  the  first  year,  from  unfortunate- 
ly buying  bad  seed,  the  second,  from  a late  har- 
vest, we  lost  half  of  our  crops.  This  overset  all 
my  wisdom,  and  I returned,  like  the  dog  to  his 
vomit,  and  the  sow  that  was  washed  to  her  wallow- 
ing in  the  mire,  t 

I now  began  to  be  known  in  the  neighborhood 
as  a maker  of  rhymes.  The  first  of  my  poetic 
offspring  that  saw  the  light,  was  a burlesque 
lamentation  on  a quarrel  between  two  reverend 
Calvinists,  both  of  them  dramatis  personae  in  my 
Holy  Fair.  I had  a notion  myself,  that  the  piece 
had  some  merit ; but  to  prevent  the  worst,  I 
gave  a copy  of  it  to  a friend  who  was  very  fond 
of  such  things,  and  told  him  that  I could  not 
guess  who  was  the  authorof  it,  but  that  1 thought 
it  pretty  clever.  With  a certain  description  of 
the  clergy,  as  well  as  laity,  it  met  with  a roar 
of  applause.  Holy  Willie's  Prayer  next  made 
its  appearance,  and  alarmed  the  kirk-session  so 
much,  that  they  held  several  meetings  to  look 

* Hob  the  Rhymer’s  Welcome  to  his  Bastard  Child. 

f Sea  Appendix,  No.  II.,  Note  B. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


over  their  spiritual  artillery,  if  haply  any  of  it 
might  be  pointed  against  profane  rhymers.  Un- 
luckily for  me,  my  wanderings  led  me  on  anoth- 
er side,  within  point-blank  shot  of  their  heaviest 
metal.  This  is  the  unfortunate  story  that  gave 
rise  to  my  printed  poem.  The  Lament.  This 
was  a most  melancholy  affair,  which  I cannot 
yet  bare  to  reflect  on,  and  had  very  nearly  given 
me  one  or  two  of  the  principal  qualifications  for  a 
place  among  those  who  have  lost  the  chart,  and 
mistaken  the  reckoning  of  Rationality.*  I gave 
up  my  part  of  the  farm  to  my  brother ; in  truth  it 
was  only  nominally  mine  ; and  made  what  lit- 
tle preparation  was  in  my  power  for  Jamaica. 
But  before  leaving  my  native  country  forever,  I 
resolved  to  publish  my  poems.  I weighed  my 
productions  as  impartially  as  was  in  my  power  ; 
J thought  they  had  merit  ; and  it  was  a deli- 
cious idea  that  I should  be  called  a clever  fellow, 
even  though  it  should  never  reach  my  ears — a 
poor  negro  driver; — or  perhaps  a victim  to  that  in- 
hospitable clime,  and  gone  to  the  world  of  spirits! 
1 can  truly  say,  that  pauvre  inconnu  as  I then 
was.  I had  pretty  nearly  as  high  an  idea  of  my- 
self and  of  my  works  as  I have  at  this  moment, 
when  the  public  has  decided  in  their  favor.  It 
ever  was  my  opinion  that  the  mistakes  and  blun- 
ders, both  in  a rational  and  religious  point  of 
view,  of  which  we  see  thousands  daily  guilty, 
are  owing  to  their  ignorance  of  themselves.  To 
know  myself  had  been  all  along  my  constant 
study.  I weighed  myself  alone  ; I balanced  my- 
self with  others;  I watched  every  means  of  in- 
formation, to  see  how  much  ground  I occupied 
as  a man  and  as  a poet ; I studied  assiduously 
Nature’s  design  in  my  formation — where  the 
lights  and  shades  in  my  character  were  intended. 
I was  pretty  confident  my  poems  would  meet 
with  some  applause;  but,  at  the  worst,  the  roar 
of  the  Atlantic  would  deafen  the  voice  of  cen- 
sure, and  the  novelty  of  West  Indian  scenes 
make  me  forget  neglect.  I threw  off  six  hun- 
dred copies,  of  which  I had  got  subscriptions  for 
about  three  hundred  and  fifty. — My  vanity  was 
highly  gratified  by  the  reception  I met  with  from 
the  public ; and  besides  I pocketed,  all  expens- 
es deducted,  nearly  twenty  pounds.  This  sum 
came  very  seasonably,  as  I was  thinking  of  in- 
denting myself,  for  want  of  money  to  procure  my 
passage.  As  soon  as  I was  mas'er  of  nine  guin- 
eas, the  price  of  wafting  me  to  the  torrid  zone, 

I took  a steerage  passage  in  the  first  ship  that 
was  to  sail  from  the  Clyde  ; for, 

“ Hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the  wind.” 

I had  been  for  some  days  skulking  from  co- 
vert to  covert,  under  all  the  terrors  of  a jail  ; as 
some  ill-advised  people  had  uncoupled  the  mer- 
ciless pack  of  the  law  at  my  heels.  I had  taken 
the  farewell  of  my  few  friends ; my  chest  was 
on  the  road  to  Greenock  ; I had  composed  the 
last  song  I should  ever  measure  in  Caledonia, 
The  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fust,  when  a let- 
ter from  Dr.  Blacklock,  to  a friend  of  mine, 
overthrew  all  my  schemes,  by  opening  new  pros- 
pects to  my  poetic  ambition.  The  Doctor  be- 
longed to  a set  of  critics,  for  whose  applause  1 
had  not  dared  to  hope.  His  opinion  that  I would 
meet  with  encouragement  in  Edinburgh  for  a 
second  edition,  fired  me  so  much,  that  away  I 
posted  for  that  city,  without  a single  acquaint- 
ance, or  a single  letter  of  introduction.  The 
* An  explanation  of  this  will  be  found  hereafter. 


1G9 

baneful  star  which  had  so  long  shed  its  blasting 
influence  in  my  zenith,  tor  once  made  a revolu- 
tion to  the  nadir  ; and  a kind  Providence  placed 
me  under  the  patronage  of  one  of  the  noblest  of 
men,  the  Earl  of  Glencairn.  Oublie  moi,  Grarid 
Dicii,  si  jamais  je  V oublie  ! 

“ l need  relate  no  farther.  At  Edinburgh  I 
was  in  a new  world  ; I mingled  among  many 
classes  of  men,  but  all  of  them  new  to  me,  and 
I was  all  attention  to  catch  the  characters  and 
the  manners  living  as  they  rise.  W hether  1 have 
profited,  time  will  show. 

*****: * * * 

“My  most  respectful  compliments  to  Miss 
W.  Her  very  elegant  and  friendly  letter  I can- 
not answer  at  present,  as  my  presence  is  requi- 
site in  Edinburgh,  and  I set  out  to-morrow.”* 


At  the  period  of  our  poet’s  death,  his  brother, 
Gilbert  Burns,  was  ignorant  that  he  had  him- 
self written  the  foregoing  narrative  of  his  life 
while  in  Ayrshire  ; and  having  been  applied  to 
by  Mrs.  Dunlop  for  some  memoirs  of  his  broth- 
er, he  complied  with  her  request  in  a letter, 
from  which  the  following  narrative  is  chiefly  ex- 
tracted. When  Gilbert  Burns  afterwards  saw 
the  letter  of  our  poet  to  Dr.  Moore,  he  mado 
some  annotations  upon  it,  which  shall  be  noticed 
as  we  proceed. 

Robert  Burns  was  born  on  the  25th  day  of 
January,  1759,  in  a small  house  about  two  mile3 
from  the  town  of  Ayr,  and  within  a few  hundred 
yards  of  Alloway  church,  which  his  poem  of 
Tam  o'  Shanter  has  rendered  immortal. t The 
name  which  the  poet  and  his  brother  moderniz- 
ed into  Burns,  was  originally  Burnes,  or  Burn- 
ess.  Their  father,  William  Burnes,  was  tho 
son  of  a firmer  in  Kincardinshire,  and  had  re- 
ceived the  education  common  in  Scotland  to  per- 
sons in  his  condition  of  life  ; he  could  read  and 
write,  and  had  some  knowledge  of  arithmetic. 
His  family  having  fallen  into  reduced  circum- 
stances, he  was  compelled  to  leave  his  home  in 
his  nineteenth  year,  and  turned  his  steps  towards 
the  south  in  quest  of  a livelihood.  The  same 
necessity  attended  his  elder  brother  Robert. 
“ I have  often  heard  my  father,”  says  Gilbert 
Burns,  in  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  “ describe 
the  anguish  of  mind  he  felt  when  they  parted  on 
the  top  of  a hill  on  the  confines  of  their  native 
place,  each  going  off  his  several  way  in  search 
of  new  adventures,  and  scarcely  knowing  whith- 
er he  went.  My  father  undertook  to  act  as  a 
gardener,  and  shaped  his  course  to  Edinburgh, 
where  he  wrought  hard  when  he  could  get  work, 
passing  through  a variety  of  difficulties.  Still, 
however,  he  endeavored  to  spare  something  for 
the  support  of  his  aged  parents  : and  I recollect 
hearing  him  mention  his  having  sent  a bank- 
note for  this  purpose,  when  money  of  that  kind 

* There  are  various  copies  of  this  letter  in  the  au- 
thor's hand-writing  ; and  one  of  these  evidently  cor- 
rected is  in  the  hook  in  which  lie  had  copied  several 
of  his  letters.  This  lias  been  used  for  the  press,  with 
some  omissions,  and  one  slight  alteration  suggested 
by  G iberl  Burns. 

t This  house  is  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  road 
from  Ayr  to  Mnybole,  which  forms  a part  of  the  road 
from  Glasgow  to  Port  Patrick.  When  the  poet’s  fa- 
ther afterwards  removed  to  Tarbo'ton  pari  h,  lie  sold 
his  leasehold  right  in  this  house,  and  a tew  acres  of 
land  adjoining,  to  the  corporation  of  shoemakers  in 
Ayr.  It  is  now  a country  ale-house. 


170 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


was  so  scarce  in  Kincardinshire,  that  they 
scarcely  knew  how  to  employ  it  when  it  arriv- 
ed.” From  Edinburgh,  William  Burnes  pass- 
ed westward  into  the  county  of  Ayr,  where  he 
engaged  himself  as  a gardener  to  the  laird  of 
Fairly,  with  whom  he  lived  two  years  ; then 
changing  his  service  for  that  of  Crawford  of 
Doonside.  At  length,  being  desirous  of  settling 
in  life,  he  took  a perpetual  lease  of  seven  acres 
of  land  from  Dr.  Campbell,  physician  in  Ayr, 
with  the  view  of  commencing  nurseryman  and 
public  gardener  ; and  having  built  a house  upon 
it  with  his  own  hands,  married,  in  December, 
17  >7,  Agnes  Brown,  the  mother  of  our  poet, 
who  stili  survives  The  first  fruit  of  this  mar- 
riage was  Robert,  the  subject  of  these  memoirs, 
born  on  the  25th  of  January,  1759,  as  has  already 
been  mentioned.  Before  William  Burnes  had 
made  much  progress  in  preparing  his  nursery, 
he  was  withdrawn  from  that  undertaking  by  Mr. 
Ferguson,  who  purchased  the  estate  of  Doon- 
holm,  in  the  immediate  neighborhood,  and  en- 
gaged him  as  his  gardener  and  overseer  ; and 
this  was  hi-;  situation  when  our  poet  was  born. 
Though  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Ferguson,  he  lived 
in  his  own  house,  his  wife  managing  her  family 
and  her  little  dairy,  which  consisted  sometimes 
of  two,  sometimes  of  three  milch  cows  : and 
this  state  of  unambitious  content  continued  till 
the  y$ar  1766.  His  son  Robert  was  sent  by  him, 
in  his  sixth  year,  to  a school  at  Alioway  Miln, 
about  a mile  distant,  taught  by  a person  of  the 
name  of  Campbell  ; but  this  teacher  being  in  a 
few  months  appointed  master  of  the  work-house 
at  Ayr,  William  Burnes,  in  conjunction  with 
some  other  heads  of  families, engaged  John  Mur- 
doch in  his  stead.  The  education  of  our  poet, 
and  of  his  brother  Gilbert,  was  in  common  ; and 
of  their  proficiency  under  Mr.  Murdoch  we  have 
the  following  account : “ With  him  we  learnt 
to  read  English  tolerably  well,*  and  to  write  a 
little.  He  taught  us,  too,  the  English  grammar. 
I was  too  young  to  profit  much  from  his  lessons 
in  grammar  ; but  Robert  made  some  proficien- 
cy in  it — a circumstance  of  considerable  weight 
in  the  unfolding  of  his  genius  and  character  ; as 
he  soon  became  remarkable  for  the  fluency  and 


and  improvement ; for  even  then  he  was  a read- 
er when  he  could  get  a book.  Murdoch,  whose 
library  at  that  time  had  no  great  variety  in  it, 
lent  him  The  Life  of  Hannibal,  which  was  the 
first  book  he  read  (the  school-book  excepted,) 
and  almost  the  only  one  he  had  an  opportunity  of 
reading  while  he  was  at  school  : for  The  Life  of 
Wallace,  which  he  classes  with  it  in  one  of  his 
letters  to  you,  he  did  not  see  for  some  ysars  af- 
terwards, when  he  borrowed  it  from  the  black- 
smith who  shod  our  horses.” 

It  appears  that  William  Burnes  approved  him- 
self greatly  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Ferguson,  by 
his  intelligence,  industry,  and  integrity.  In 
consequence  of  this,  with  a view  of  promoting 
his  interest,  Mr.  Ferguson  leased  him  a farm, 
of  which  we  have  the  following  account : 

“ The  farm  was  upwards  of  seventy  acres, t 
(between  eighty  and  ninety,  English  statute 
measure,)  the  rent  of  which  was  to  he  forty 
pounds  annually  for  the  first  six  years,  and  alter- 

* Letter  from  Gilbert  Burns  to  Mrs.  Dunlop, 
t Letter  of  Gilbert  Burns  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  The 
name  of  this  farm  is  Mount  Oi  pliant,  in  Ayr  parish. 


| wards  forty-five  pounds.  My  father  endeavor- 
| ed  to  sell  his  leasehold  property,  for  the  purpose 
I of  stocking  this  iarm,  but  at  that  time  was  un- 
! able,  and  Mr.  Ferguson  lent  him  a hundred 
pounds  lor  that  purpose.  He  removed  to  his 
new  situation  at  Whitsuntide,  1766.  It  was, 

I think,  not  above  two  years  afer  this,  that 
Murdoch,  our  tutor  and  Iriend,  left  this  part  of 
the  country  ; and  there  being  no  school  near 
us,  and  our  little  services  being  useful  on  the 
farm,  my  father  undertook  to  teach  us  arithmetic 
| in  the  winter  evenings  by  candle-light ; and  in 
I this  way  my  two  eldest  sisters  got  ail  the  edu- 
cation they  received.  I remember  a circum- 
stance that  happened  at  this  time,  which  though 
trifling  in  itself,  is  fresh  in  my  memory,  and 
may  serve  to  illustrate  the  early  character  of 
my  brother.  Murdoch  came  to  spend  a night 
with  us,  and  to  take  his  leave,  when  he  was  about 
to  go  into  Garrick.  He  brought  us,  as  a present 
and  memorial  of  him,  a small  compendium  of 
English  grammar,  and  the  tragedy  of  Titus 
Andronicus,  and  by  way  of  passing  the  evening, 
he  began  to  read  the  play  aloud.  We  were  all 
attention  for  some  time,  till  presently  the  whole 
party  was  dissolved  in  tears.  A female  in  the 
play  (I  have  but  a confused  remembrance  of  it) 
had  her  hands  chopt  off.  and  her  tongue  cut  out, 
and  then  was  insultingly  desired  to  call  for  water 
to  wash  her  hands.  At  this,  in  an  agony  of 
distress,  we  . with  one  voice  desired  he  would 
read  no  more.  My  father  observed,  that  if  we 
would  not  hear  it  out,  it  would  be  needless  to 
leave  the  play  with  us.  Robert  replied,  that  if 
it  was  left  he  would  burn  it.  My  father  was 
going  to  chide  him  for  this  ungrateful  return  to 
his  tutor’s  kindness;  but  Murdoch  interfered, 
declaring  that  he  liked  to  see  so  much  sensibil- 
ity; and  he  left  The  School  for  Love,  a comedy, 
(translated  I think  from  the  French,)  in  its 
place.”* 

“ Nothing,”  continues  Gilbert  Burns,  “ could 
be  more  retired  than  our  general  manner  of  liv- 
ing at  Mount  Oliphant ; we  rarely  saw  any  body 
but  the  members  of  our  own  family.  There 
were  no  boys  of  our  own  age,  or  near  it,  in  the 
neighborhood.  Indeed  the  greatest  part  of  the 
land  in  the  vicinity  was  at  that  time  possessed 
by  shopkeepers,  and  people  of  that  stamp,  who 
had  retired  from  business,  or  who  kept  their 
farm  in  the  country,  at  the  same  time  that  they 
followed  business  in  town.  My  father  was  for 
some  time  almost  the  only  companion  we  had. 
He  conversed  familiarly  on  all  subjects  with  us, 
as  if  we  had  been  men ; and  was  at  great  pains, 

*It  is  to  be  remembered  that  the  poet  was  only 
nine  years  of  age,  and  the  relator  of  tli  s incident  under 
eight,  at  the  t me  it  happened.  '1  he  effect  was  very 
natural  in  children  of  sensibility  at  their  age.  At  a 
more  mature  period  of  the  judgment,  such  absurd 
representations  are  calculated  rather  to  produce  dis- 
gust or  laughter,  than  tears.  The  scene  to  which 
Gilbert  Burns  alludes,  opens  thus: 

Titus  Andronicus,  Act  II.  Scene  5. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Chiron,  with  Lavinia  ravished, 
her  hands  cut  off,  and  her  tongue  cut  out. 

Why  is  this  silly  piny  still  printed  as  Shakspeare’s, 
against  the  opinion  of  all  the  best  critics  ? The  bard 
of  Avon  was  guilty  of  many  extravagances,  but  be 
always  performed  what  be  intended  to  perform.  That 
he  ever  excited  in  a British  mind  ( or  the  French 
critics  must  be  set  aside)  disgust  or  ridicule,  where 
he  meant  to  have  awakened  pity  or  horror,  is  what 
will  not  be  imputed  to  that  master  of  the  passions 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


while  we  accompanied  him  in  the  labors  of  the 
farm,  to  lead  the  conversation  to  such  subjects 
as  might  tend  to  increase  our  knowledge,  or 
confirm  us  in  virtuous  habits.  He  borrowed 
Salmon's  Geographical  Grammar  for  us,  and 
endeavored  to  make  us  acquainted  with  the 
situation  and  history  of  the  different  countries 
in  the  world  ; while  from  a book-society  in  Ayr, 
he  procured  for  us  the  reading  of  Derham' s 
Physico  and  Astro- Theology,  and  Ray's  W is  - 
dam  of  God  in  the  Creation,  to  give  us  some 
idea  of  astronomy  and  natural  history.  Robert 
read  all  tiiese  books  with  an  avidity  and  indus- 
try, scarcely  to  be  equalled.  ]\Iy  lather  had 
been  a subscriber  to  Stackhouse's  History  of 
the  Bible . then  lately  published  by  James  Meu- 
ross,  in  Kilmarnock  : from  this  Robert  collected 
a competent  knowledge  of  history  ; for  no  book 
was  so  voluminous  as  to  slacken  his  industry, 
or  so  antiquated  as  to  damp  his  researches.  A 
brother  of  my  mother,  who  had  lived  with  us 
some  time,  and  had  learnt  some  arithmetic  by 
winter  evening’s  candle,  went  into  a bookseller  s 
shop  in  Ayr,  to  purchase  The  Ready  Reckoner, 
or  Tradesman's  Sure  Guide,  and  a book  to  teach 
him  to  write  letters.  Luckily,  in  place  of  The 
Complete  Letter-  Writer,  he  got  by  mistake  a 
small  collection  of  letters  by  the  most  eminent 
writers,  with  a few  sensible  directions  for  attain- 
ing an  easy  epistolary  style.  This  book  was  to 
Robert  of  the  greatest  consequence.  It  inspired 
him  with  a strong  desire  to  excel  in  letter- writ- 
ing, while  it  furnished  him  with  models  by 
some  of  the  first  writers  in  our  language. 

“ My  brother  was  about  thirteen  or  fourteen, 
when  my  father,  regretting  that  we  wrote  so 
ill,  sent  us.weekabo  if.  during  a summer  quarter, 
to  the  parish  school  ol  Dalrymple,  which,  though 
between  two  and  three  miles  distant,  was  the 
nearest  to  us,  that  we  might  have  an  opportuni- 
ty of  remedying  this  defect.  About  this  time 
a bookish  acquaintance  of  my  father’s  procured 
us  a reading  of  two  volumes  of  Richardson’s 
Pamela,  which  v/as  the  first  novel  we  read,  and 
the  only  part  of  Richardson's  works  my  brother 
was  acquainted  with  till  towards  the  period  of 
his  commencing  author.  Till  that  time,  too,  he 
remained  unacquainted  with  Fielding,  with 
Smollet,  (two  volumes  of  Ferdinand  Count 
Fathom,  and  two  volumes  of  Peregrine  Pickle, 
excepted,)  with  Ilume,  with  Robertson,  and  al- 
most all  our  authors  of  eminence  of  the  later 
times,  I recollect  indeed  my  father  borrowed  a 
volume  of  English  history  from  Mr.  Hamilton  of 
BourtreehiU’s  gardener.  It  treated  of  the  reign 
of  James  the  First,  and  his  unfortunate  son, 
Charles,  but  I do  not  know  who  was  the  author  ; 
all  that  I remember  of  it  is  something  of 
Charles’s  conversation  with  his  children.  About 
this  time  Murdoch,  our  former  teacher,  after 
having  been  in  different  places  in  the  country, 
and  having  taught  a school  some  time  in  Dum- 
fries, came  to  be  the  established  teacher  of  the 
English  language  in  Ayr,  a circumstance  of 
considerable  consequence  to  us.  '1  he  remem- 
brance of  my  father’s  former  friendship,  and  his 
attachment  to  my  brother,  made  him  do  every 
thing  in  his  power  for  our  improvement.  He 
sent  us  Pope’s  works,  and  some  other  poetry, 
the  first  that  wre  had  an  opportunity  of  reading, 
excepting  what  is  contained  in  The.  English 
Collection , and  in  the  volume  of  The  Edinburgh 
Magazine  {ox  1772;  excepting  also  those  ezcel- 


171 

lent  new  songs  that  are  hawked  about  the  coun- 
try in  baskets,  or  exposed  on  stalls  in  the  streets. 

i:  The  summer  after  we  had  been  at  Dalrym- 
ple school,  my  father  sent  Robert  to  Ayr,  to  re- 
vise his  English  grammar,  with  his  former  teach- 
er. lie  had  been  there  only  one  week,  when 
he  was  obliged  to  return  to  assist  at  the  harvest. 
When  the  harvest  was  over,  he  went  back  to 
school,  where  he  remained  two  weeks ; and 
this  completes  the  account  of  his  school  educa- 
tion, excepting  one  summer  quarter,  some  time 
afterwards,  that  he  attended  the  parish  school  of 
Kirk- Oswald,  (where  he  lived  with  a brother 
of  my  mother’s,)  to  iearn  surveying. 

“ During  the  two  last  weeks  that  he  was  with 
Murdoch,  he  himself  was  engaged  in  learning 
French,  and  he  communicated  the  instructions 
he  received  to  my  brother,  who,  when  he  re- 
turned, brought  home  with  him  a French  dic- 
tionary and  grammar,  and  the  Adventures  of 
Telemachus  in  the  original.  In  a little  while, 
by  the  assistance  of  these  books,  he  had  acquired 
such  a knowledge  of  the  language,  as  to  read 
and  understand  any  French  author  in  prose. 
This  was  considered  as  a sort  of  prodigy,  and 
through  the  medium  of  Murdoch,  procured  him 
the  acquaintance  with  several  lads  in  Ayr,  who 
were  at  that  time  gabbling  French,  and  the  no- 
tice of  some  families,  particularly  that  of  Dr. 
Malcolm,  where  a knowledge  of  Frenclfwas  a 
recommendation. 

“ Observing  the  facility  wdth  which  he  had 
acquired  the  French  language,  Mr.  Robinson, 
the  established  writing-master  in  Ayr,  and  Mr. 
Murdoch’s  particular  friend,  having  himself  ac 
quired  a considerable  knowledge  of  the  Latin 
language  by  his  own  industry,  without  ever  hav- 
ing learnt  it  at  school,  advised  Robert  to  make 
the  same  attempt,  promising  him  every  assist- 
ance in  his  power.  Agreeably  to  this  advice, 
he  purchased  The  Rudiments  of  the  Latin  Tongue; 
but  finding  this  study  dry  and  uninteresting, 
it  was  quickly  laid  aside.  He  frequently  re- 
turned to  his  Rudiments  on  any  little  chagrin 
or  disappointment,  particularly  in  his  love  af- 
fairs ; but  the  Latin  seldom  predominated  more 
than  a day  or  two  at  a time,  or  a week  at  most. 
Observing  himself  the  ridicule  that  would  at- 
tach to  this  sort  of  conduct  if  it  were  known,  he 
made  two  or  three  humorous  stanzas  on  the 
subject,  which  I cannot  now  recollect,  but  they 
all  ended, 

“ So  I’ll  to  my  Latin  again.” 

“ Thus  you  see  Mr.  Murdoch  was  a princi- 
pal means  of  my  brother’s  improvement.  Wor- 
thy man  ; though  foreign  to  my  present  purpose, 
I cannot  leave  him  without  tracing  his  future 
history.  He  continued  for  some  years  a respect- 
ed and  useful  teacher  at  Ayr,  till  one  evening 
that  he  had  been  overtaken  in  liquor,  he  hap- 
pened to  speak  somewhat  disrespectfully  of  Dr. 
Dalrymple,  the  parish  minister,  who  had  not 
paid  him  that  attention  to  which  he  thought  him- 
self entitled.  In  Ayr,  he  might  as  well  have 
spoken  blasphemy.  lie  found  it  proper  to  give 
up  his  appointment.  He  went  to  London,  wfiere 
he  still  lives,  a private  teacher  of  French.  He 
has  been  a considerable  time  married,  and  keeps 
a shop  of  stationary  wares. 

“ 'Fite  father  of  Dr.  Patterson,  now  physician 
at  Ayr, was,  I believe, a native  of  Aberdeenshire, 
and  was  one  of  the  established  teachers  in  Ayr, 


172 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


when  my  father  settled  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  early  recognised  my  father  as  a fellow-native 
of  the  north  of  Scotland,  and  a certain  degree  of 
intimacy  subsisted  between  them  during  Mr. 
Patterson’s  life.  After  his  death,  his  widow, 
who  is  a very  genteel  woman,  of  great  worth, 
delighted  in  doing  what  she  thought  her  hus- 
band would  have  wished  to  have  done,  and  as- 
siduously kept  up  her  attentions  to  all  his  ac- 
quaintance. She  kept  alive  the  intimacy  with 
our  family,  by  frequently  inviting  my  father  and 
mother  to  her  house  on  Sundays,  when  she  met 
them  at  church. 

*'  When  she  came  to  know  my  brother’s  pas- 
sion for  books,  she  kindly  offered  us  the  use  of 
her  husband’s  library,  and  from  her  we  got  the 
Spectator,  Pope's  Translat  ion  of  Homer , and  sev- 
eral other  books  that  were  of  use  to  us.  Mount 
Oliphant,  the  farm  my  father  possessed  in  the 
parish  of  Ayr,  is  almost  the  very  poorest  soil  I 
know  of  in  a state  of  cultivation.  A stronger 
proof  of  this  I cannot  give,  than  that  notwith- 
standing the  extraordinary  rise  in  the  value  of 
lands  in  Scotland,  it  was,  after  a considerable 
sum  laid  out  in  improving  it  by  the  proprietor, 
let  a few  years  ago  live  pounds  per  annum  low- 
er than  the  rent  paid  for  it  by  my  father  thirty 
years  ago.  My  father,  in  consequence  of  this, 
soon  came  into  difficulties,  which  were  increased 
by  the.  loss  of  several  of  his  cattle  by  accidents 
and  diseases. — To  the  buffetings  of  misfortune, 
we  could  only  oppose  hard  labor,  and  the  most 
rigid  economy.  We  lived  very  sparing.  For 
several  years  butcher’s  meat  wras  a stranger  in 
the  house,  while  all  the  members  of  the  family 
exerted  themselves  to  the  utmost  of  their  strength, 
and  rather  beyond  it,  in  the  labors  of  the  farm. 
My  brother,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  assisted  in 
thrashing  the  crop  of  corn,  and  at  fifteen  was  the 
principal  laborer  on  the  farm,  for  we  had  no 
hired  servant,  male  or  female.  The  anguish  of 
mind  we  felt,  at  our  tender  years,  under  these 
straits  and  difficulties,  was  very  great.  To  think 
of  our  father  growing  old  (for  he  was  now  above 
fifty,)  broken  down  with  the  long  continued  fa- 
tigues of  his  life,  with  a wife  and  five  other  chil- 
dren, and  in  a declining  state  of  circumstances, 
these  reflections  produced  in  my  brother’s  mind 
and  mine  sensations  of  the  deepest  distress.  ] 
doubt  not  but  the  hard  labor  and  sorrow  of  this 
period  of  his  life,  was  in  a great  measure  the 
cause  of  that  depression  of  spirits  with  which 
Robert  was  so  often  afflicted  through  his  whole 
life  afterwards.  At  this  time  he  was  almost  con- 
stantly afflicted  in  the  evenings  with  a dull  head- 
ache, which  at  a future  period  of  his  life,  was 
exchanged  for  a palpitation  of  the  heart,  and  a 
threatening  of  fainting  and  suffocation  in  his  bed 
in  the  night-time. 

“ By  a stipulation  in  my  father’s  lease  he  had 
a right  to  throw  it  up,  if  he  thought  proper,  at 
the  end  of  every  sixth  year.  He  attempted  to 
fix  himself  in  a better  farm  at  the  end  of  the  first 
six  years,  but  failing  in  that  attempt,  he  contin- 
ued where  he  was  for  six  years  more.  He  then 
took  the  farm  of  Lochlea,  of  130  acres,  at  the 
rent  of  twenty  shillings  an  acre,  in  the  parish  of 

Tarbolton,  of  Mr. , then  a merchant  in  Ayr, 

and  now  (1797,)  a merchant  in  Liverpool.  He 
removed  to  this  farm  on  Whitsunday.  1777,  and 
possessed  it  only  seven  years.  No  writing  had 
ever  been  made  out  of  the  conditions  of  the  lease; 
a misunderstanding  took  place  respecting  them; 


the  subjects  in  dispute  were  submitted  to  arbi- 
tration, and  the  decision  involved  my  faiher’s  af- 
fairs in  ruin.  He  iived  to  know  of  this  decision, 
but  not  to  see  any  execution  in  consequence  of 
it.  lie  died  on  the  13th  of  February,  1784. 

“ The  seven  years  we  lived  in  Tarbolton  par- 
ish (extending  from  the  seventeenth  to  the  twen- 
ty-fourth of  my  brother’s  age,)  were  not  marked 
by  much  literary  improvement ; but,  during  this 
time,  the  foundation  was  laid  of  certain  habits  in 
my  brother’s  character,  which  became  but  too 
prominent,  and  which  malice  and  envy  have  ta- 
ken delight  to  enlarge  on.  Though  when  young 
he  was  bashful  and  awkward  in’ his  intercouse 
with  women,  yet  when  he  approached  manhood, 
his  attachment  to  their  society  became  very 
strong,  and  he  was  constantly  the  victim  of  some 
fair  enslaver.  The  symptoms  of  his  passion  were 
often  such  as  nearly  to  equal  those  of  the  celebra- 
ted Sappho.  I never  indeed  knew  that  he  fain- 
ted, sunk,  and  died  away ; but  the  aginations  of 
his  mind  and  body  exceeded  any  thing  of  the 
kind  I ever  knew  in  real  life.  He  had  always 
a particular  jealousy  of  people  who  were  richer 
than  himself,  or  who  had  more  consequence  in 
life.  His  love  therefore  rarely  settled  on  persons 
of  this  description.  When  he  selected  any  one 
out  of  the  sovereignty  of  his  good  pleasure,  to 
whom  he  should  pay  his  particular  attention,  she 
was  instantly  invested  with  a sufficient  stock  of 
charms,  out  of  a plentiful  store  of  his  own  imagi- 
nation ; and  there  was  often  a great  dissimilitude 
between  his  fair  captivator,  as  she  appeared  to 
others,  and  as  she  seemed  when  invested  with 
the  attributes  he  gave  her.  One  generally  reign- 
ed paramount  in  his  affections  ; but  as  Yorick’a 
affections  flowed  out  toward  Madam  de  L — at 
the  remise  door,  while  the  eternal  vows  of  Eliza 
were  upon  him,  so  Robert  was  frequently  en- 
countering other  attractions,  which  formed  so 
many  underplots  in  the  drama  of  his  love.  As 
these  connections  were  governed  by  the  strict- 
est rules  of  virtue  and  modesty  (from  which  he 
never  deviated  till  he  reached  his  23rd  year,)  he 
became  anxious  to  be  in  a situation  to  marry. 
This  was  not  likely  to  be  soon  the  case  while 
he  remained  a farmer,  as  the  stocking  of  a farm 
required  a sum  of  money  he  had  no  probability 
of  being  master  of  for  a great  while.  He  be- 
gan, therefore,  to  think  of  trying  some  other  line 
of  life.  He  and  I had  for  several  years  taken 
land  of  my  father  for  the  purpose  of  raising  flax 
on  our  own  account.  In  the  course  of  selling 
it,  Robert  began  to  think  of  turning  flax-dress- 
er, both  as  being  suitable  to  his  grand  view  of 
settling  in  life, and  as  subservient  to  the  flax  rais- 
ing. He  accordingly  wrought  at  the  business 
of  a flax-dresser  in  Irvine  for  six  months,  but 
abandoned  it  at  that  period,  as  neither  agreeing 
with  his  health  nor  inclination.  In  Irvine  he  had 
contracted  some  acquaintance  of  a freer  manner 
of  thinking  and  living  than  he  had  been  used  to, 
whose  society  prepared  him  for  overleaping  the 
boundsof  rigid  virtue  which  had  hitherto  rest,  ain- 
ed  him.  Towards  the  end  of  the  period  under 
review  (in  his  24th  year,)  and  soon  after  his 
father’s  death,  he  was  furnished  with  the  subject 
of  his  epistle  to  John  Ranklin.  During  this  pe- 
riod also  he  became  a freemason,  which  was 
his  first  introduction  to  the  life  of  a boon  com- 
panion. Yet,  notwithstanding  these  circum- 
stances, and  the  praise  he  has  bestowed  on 
Scotch  drink  (which  seems  to  have  misled  his 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


historians,)  I do  not  recollect,  during  these  sev- 
en years,  nor  till  towards  the  end  of  his  com- 
mencing author  (when  his  growing  celebrity  oc- 
casioned his  being  often  in  company,)  to  have 
ever  seen  him  intoxicated  ; nor  was  he  at  all  giv- 
en to  drinking.  A stronger  proof  of  the  general 
sobriety  of  his  conduct  need  not  be  required  than 
what  I am  about  to  give.  During  the  whole  of 
the  time  we  lived  in  the  farm  of  Lochlea  with 
my  father,  he  allowed  my  brother  and  me  such 
wages  for  our  labor  as  he  gave  to  other  laborers, 
as  a part  of  which  every  article  of  our  clothing 
manufactured  in  the  family  was  regularly  ac- 
counted for.  When  my  father’s  affairs  drew 
near  a crisis,  Robert  and  I took  the  farm  of  Moss- 
giel,  consisting  of  118  acres,  at  the  rent  of  90Z, 
per  annum  (the  farm  on  which  I live  at  present,) 
from  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton,  as  an  asylum  for  the 
family  in  case  of  the  worst.  It  was  stocked  by 
the  property  and  individual  savings  of  the  whole 
family,  and  was  a joint  concern  among  us.  Ev- 
ery member  of  the  family  was  allowed  ordina- 
ry wages  for  the  labor  he  performed  on  the  farm. 
My  brother’s  allowance  and  mine  was  seven 
pounds  per  annum  each.  And  during  the  whole 
time  this  family  concern  lasted,  which  was  for  ! 
four  years,  as  well  as  during  the  preceding  peri- 
od at  Lochlea,  his  expenses  never  in  any  one 
year  exceeded  his  slender  income.  As  I was 
intrustedwith  the  keepingof  the  family  accounts, 
it  is  not  possible  that  there  can  be  any  fallacy 
in  this  statement  in  my  brother’s  favor.  His 
temperance  and  frugality  were  every  thing  that 
could  be  wished. 

“ The  farm  of  Mossgiel  lies  very  high,  and 
mostly  on  a cold  wet  bottom.  The  first  four 
years  that  we  were  on  the  farm  were  very  frosty, 
and  the  spring  was  very  late.  Our  crops  in 
consequence  were  very  unprofitable  ; and,  not- 
withstanding our  utmost  diligence  and  economy, 
we  found  ourselves  obliged  to  give  up  our  bar- 
gain, with  the  loss  of  a considerable  part  of  our 
original  stock.  It  was  during  these  four  years 
that  Robert  formed  his  connection  with  Jean 
Armour,  afterwards  Mrs.  Burns.  This  con- 
nection could  no  longer  be  concealed , about  the 
time  we  came  to  a final  determination  to  quit 
the  farm.  Robert  durst  not  engage  with  his 
family  in  his  poor  unsettled  state,  but  was  anx- 
ious to  shield  his  partner,  by  every  means  in 
his  power,  from  the  consequence  of  their  im- 
prudence. It  was  agreed,  therefore,  between 
them,  that  they  should  make  a legal  acknow- 
ledgment of  an  irregular  and  private  marriage  ; 
that  he  should  go  to  Jamaica  to  push  his  fortune ! 
and  that  she  should  remain  with  her  father  till 
it  might  please  Providence  to  put  the  means  of 
supporting  a family  in  his  power. 

“ Mrs.  Burns  was  a great  favorite  of  her 
father’s.  The  intimation  of  a marriage  was  the 
first  suggestion  he  received  of  her  real  situation. 
He  was  in  the  greatest  distress,  and  fainted 
away.  The  marriage  did  not  appear  to  him 
to  make  the  matter  belter.  A husband  in  Jamai- 
ca appeared  to  him  and  hi3  wife  little  better 
than  none,  and  an  effectual  bar  to  any  other 
prospects  of  a settlement  in  life  that  their  daugh- 
ter might  have.  They  therefore  expressed  a 
wish  to  her,  that  the  written  papers  which  re- 
spected the  marriage  should  be  cancelled,  and 
thus  the  marriage  rendered  void.  In  her  me- 
lancholy state  she  felt  the  deepest  remorse  at 
having  brought  such  heavy  affliction  on  parents 


]wo 

.16 

that  loved  her  so  tenderly,  and  submitted  to 
their  entreaties.  Their  wish  was  mentioned  to 
Robert.  He  felt  the  deepest  anguish  of  mind. 
He  offered  to  stay  at  home  and  provide  for  his 
wife  and  family  in  the  best  manner  that  his  daily 
labors  could  provide  for  them  ; that  being  the 
only  means  in  his  power.  Even  this  offer  they 
did  not  approve  of;  for  humble  as  Miss  Armour’s 
station  was,  and  great  though  her  imprudence 
had  been,  she  still,  in  the  eyes  of  her  partial 
parents,  might  look  to  a better  connection  than 
that  with  my  friendless  and  unhappy  brother, 
at  that  time  without  house  or  biding  place. 
Robert  at  length  consented  to  their  wishes  ; but 
his  feelings  on  this  occasion  were  of  the  most 
distracting  nature  : and  the  impression  of  sor- 
row was  not  effaced,  till  by  a regular  marriage 
they  were  indissolubly  united,  in  the  state  of 
mind  which  this  separation  produced,  he  wished 
to  leave  the  country  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
agreed  with  Dr.  Douglas  to  go  out  to  Jamaica 
as  an  assistant  overseer;  or,  as  I believe  it  is 
called,  a book-keeper,  on  his  estate.  As  he 
had  not  sufficient  money  to  pay  his  passage, 
and  the  vessel  in  which  Dr.  Douglas  was  to 
procure  a passage  for  him  was  not  expected  to 
sail  for  some  time,  Mr.  Hamilton  advised  him 
to  publish  his  poems  in  the  mean  time  by  sub- 
scription, as  a likely  way  of  getting  a little 
money,  to  provide  him  more  liberally  in  ne- 
cessaries for  Jamaica.  Agreeably  to  this  advice, 
subscription  bills  were  printed  immediately, 
and  the  printing  was  commenced  at  Kilmarnock, 
his  preparations  going  on  at  the  same  time  for 
his  voyage..  The  reception,  however,  which 
his  poems  met  with  in  the  world,  and  the  friends 
they  procured  him,  made  him  change  his  re- 
solutions of  going  to  Jamaica,  and  he  was  ad- 
vised to  go  to  Edinburgh  to  publish  a second 
edition.  On  his  return,  in  happier  circum- 
stances, he  renewed  his  connection  with  Mrs. 
Burns,  and  rendered  it  permanent  by  a union 
for  life. 

“ Thus,  Madam,  have  I endeavored  to  give 
you  a simple  narrative  of  the  leading  circum- 
stances in  my  brother’s  early  life.  The  remain- 
ing part  he  spent  in  Edinburgh,  or  in  Dumfrie- 
shire,  and  its  incidents  are  as  well  known  to 
you  as  to  me.  His  genius  having  procured  him 
your  patronage  and  friendship,  this  gave  rise  to 
the  correspondence  between  you,  in  which,  I 
believe,  his  sentiments  were  delivered  with  the 
most  respectful,  but  most  unreserved  confidence, 
and  which  only  terminated  with  the  last  days  of 
his  life.” 


This  narrative  of  Gilbert  Burns  may  serve 
as  a commentary  on  the  preceding  sketch  of 
our  poet’s  life  by  himself.  It  will  be  seen  that 
the  distraction  of  mind  which  he  mentions  (p. 
160.)  arose  from  the  distress  and  sorrow  in  which 
he  had  involved  his  future  wife. — The  whole 
circumstances  attending  this  connection  are  cer- 
tainly of  a very  singular  nature.* 

The  reader  will  perceive,  from  the  foregoing 
narrative,  how  much  the  children  of  William 

*In  page  1G0.  the  poet  mentions  his — “ skulking  from 
coven  lo  covert,  under  the  terror  of  a jail.”  The 
“pack  of  the  law”  was  “ uncoupled  at  his  heels,”  to 
oblige  him  io  find  security  for  the  maintenance  of  hia 
twin  children,  whom  he  was  not  permitted  to  legiti- 
mate by  a marriage  with  their  mother. 


174 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


Burnes  were  indebted  to  their  father,  who  was 
certainly  a man  of  uncommon  talents;  though  it 
does  not  appear  that  he  possessed  any  portion  of 
that  vivid  imagination  lor  which  the  subject  of 
these  memoirs  was  distinguished.  In  page  167, 
it  is  observed  by  our  poet,  that  his  father  had 
an  unaccountable  antipathy  to  dancing-schools, 
and  that  his  attending  one  of  these  brought  on 
him  his  displeasure,  and  even  dislike.  On  this 
observation  Gilbert  has  made  the  following  re- 
mark, which  seems  entitled  to  implicit  credit : — 

‘ ‘ I wonder  how  Robert  could  attribute  to  our  fa- 
ther that  lasting  resentment  ofhisgoing  to  adanc- 
ing-school  against  his  will,  of  which  he  was  in- 
capable. I believe  the  truth  was,  that  he,  about 
this  time  began  to  see  the  dangerous  impetuos- 
ity of  my  brother’s  passions,  as  well  as  his  not 
being  amenable  to  counsel,  which  often  irritat- 
ed my  father ; and  which  he  would  naturally 
think  a dancing-school  was  not  like'ly  to  correct. 
But  he  was  proud  of  Robert’s  genius,  which  he 
bestowed  more  expense  in  cultivating  than  on 
the  rest  of  the  family,  in  the  instances  of  send- 
ing him  to  Ayr  and  Kirk- Oswald  schools  ; and 
lie  was  greatly  delighted  with  his  warmth  of 
heart,  and  his  conversational  powers.  He  had  j 
indeed  that  dislike  of  dancing-schools  which 
Robert  mentions  ; but  so  far  overcame  it  during 
Robert’s  first  month  of  attendance,  that  he  al- 
lowed all  the  rest  of  the  family  that  were  fit  for 
it  to  accompany  him  during  the  second  month. 
Robert  excelled  in  dancing,  and  was  for  some 
time  distractedly  fond  of  it.” 

In  the  original  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  our  poet 
described  his  ancestors  as  “ renting  lands  of  the 
noble  Keiths  of  Marischal,  and  as  having  had 
the  honor  of  sharing  their  fate.”  “I  do  not,” 
continues  he,  use  the  word  honor  with  any 
reference  to  political  principles  ; loyal  and  dis- 
loyal, I take  to  be  merely  relative  terms,  in  that 
ancient  and  formidable  court,  known  in  this 
country  by  the  name  of  Ciub-law,  w’here  the 
right  is  always  with  the  strongest.  But  those 
who  dare  welcome  ruin,  and  shake  hands  with 
infamy,  for  what  they  sincerely  believe  to  be 
the  cause  of  their  God,  or  their  king,  are,  as 
Mark  Antony  says,  in  Shakspeare,  of  Brutus 
and  Cassius,  honorable  men.  I mention  this 
circumstance  because  it  threw' my  father  on  the 
world  at  large.” 

This  paragraph  has  been  omitted  in  printing 
the  letter,  at  the  desire  of  Gilbert  Burns;  and 
it  would  have  been  unnecessary  to  have  notic- 
ed it  on  the  present  occasion,  had  not  several 
manuscript  copies  of  that  letter  been  in  cir- 
culation. ” 1 do  not  know,”  observes  Gilbert 
Burns,  “ how  my  brother  could  be  misled  in 
the  account  he  has  given  of  the  Jacobitism  of 
his  ancestors. — I believe  the  earl  Marischal  for- 
feited his  title  and  estate  in  1715,  before  my 
father  was  born ; and  among  a collection  of  parish 
certificates  in  his  possession,  I have  read  one, 
stating  that  the  bearer  had  no  concern  in  the 
late  xoicked  rehellion .”  On  the  information  of 
one,  who  knew  William  Burnes  soon  after  he 
arrived  in  the  county  of  Ayr,  it  may  be  men- 
tioned, that  a report  did  prevail,  that  he  had 
taken  the  field  with  the  young  Chevalier;  a re- 
port which  the  certificate  mentioned  by  his  son 
was,  perhaps,  intended  to  counteract.  Strangers 
from  the  north,  settling  in  the  low  country  of  j 
Scotland,  were  in  those  days  liable  to  suspicions 
of  having  been,  in  the  familiar  phrase  of  the  1 


country,  “ Out  in  the  forty-five,”  (1745)  espe- 
cially when  they  had  any  stateliness  or  reserve 
about  them,  as  was  the  case  with  William 
Burnes.  It  may  easily  be  conceived,  that  our 
poet  would  cherish  the  belief  of  his  lather’s 
having  been  engaged  in  the  daring  enterprise 
of  Prince  Charles  Edward.  The  generous  at- 
tachment, the  heroic  valor,  and  the  final  mis- 
fortunes of  the  adherents  of  the  house  of  Stewart, 
touched  with  sympathy  his  youthful  and  ardent 
mind,  and  influenced  his  original  political  opin- 
ions.* 

The  father  of  our  poet  is  described  by  one  who 
knew  him  towards  the  latter  end  of  his  life,  as 
above  the  common  stature,  thin,  and  bent  with 
labor.  His  countenance  was  serious  and  ex- 
pressive, and  the  scant}'’  locks  on  his  head  were 
gray.  He  was  of  a religious  turn  of  mind,  and, 
as  is  usual  among  the  Scottish  peasantry,  a 
good  deal  conversant  in  speculative  theology. 
There  is  in  Gilbert's  hands  a little  manual  of 
religious  belief,  in  the  form  of  a dialogue  be- 
tween a father  and  his  son,  composed  by  him 
for  the  use  of  his  children,  in  which  the  benev- 
olence of  his  heart  seems  to  have  led  him  to 
j soften  the  rigid  Calvinism  of  the  Scottish  Church 
into  something  approaching  to  Arrninianism. 
He  was  a devout  man,  and  in  the  practice  of 
calling  his  family  together  to  join  in  prayer.  It 
is  known  that  the  exquisite  picture,  drawn  in 
stanzas  xii.  xiii.  xiv.  xv.  xvi.  and  xviii.  of  the 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night , represents  William 
Burnes  and  his  family  at  their  evening  devo- 
tions. 

Of  a family  so  interesting  as  that  which  in- 
habited the  cottage  of  William  Burnes,  and 
particularly  of  the  father  of  the  family,  the  reader 
will  perhaps  be  willing  to  listen  to  some  farther 
account.  What  follows  is  given  by  one  already 
mentioned  with  so  much  honor  in  the  narrative 
of  Gilbert  Burns,  Mr.  Murdoch,  the  preceptor 
of  our  poet,  who,  in  a letter  to  Joseph  Cooper 
Walker,  Esq.  of  Dublin,  author  of  the  His- 
torical Memoirs  of  the  Irish  Bards,  and  the 
Historical  Memoirs  of  the  Italian  Tragedy,  thus 
expresses  himself: 

* There,  is  another  observation  of  Gilbert  Burns  on 
his  brother’s  narrative,  in  which  some  persons  will  be 
interested.  It  refers  to  where  the  poet  speaks  of  his 
youthful  friends.  *•  My  brother,”  says  Gilbert  Burns, 
“seems  to  set  off  his  early  companions  in  too  conse- 
quential a manner.  The  principal  acquaintances  we 
had  in  Ayr,  while  boy's.  were  four  sons  of  Mr.  Andrew 
M’Culloch,  a distant  relation  of  my  mother’s,  who  kept 
a tea  shop,  and  had  made  a little  money'  in  the  contra- 
band trade  very'  common  at  that  time.  He  died  while 
the  boys  were  young,  and  my  father  was  nominated 
one  of  the  tutors.  The  two  eldest  were  bred  up  shop- 
keepers, the  third  a surgeon,  and  the  youngest,  the 
only  surviving  one,  was  bred  in  a counting-house  in 
Glasgow,  where  he  is  now  a respectable  merchant. 
I believe  all  these  boys  went  to  the  West  Indies.  Then 
there  were  two  sons  of  Dr.  Malcolm,  whom  I have 
mentioned  in  my  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  The  eldest, 
a very  worthy'  young  man,  went  to  the  East  Indies, 
where  he  had  a commission  in  the  army';  he  is  the 
person  whose  heart  my  brother  says  the  Muny  Begum 
scenes  could  not  corrupt.  The  other,  by  the  interest  of 
Lady  Wallace,  got  an  ensigncy  in  a regiment  raised 
by  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  during  the  American  war. 
I believe  neither  of  them  are  now  (1797)  alive.  We 
also  knew  the  present  Dr.  Patterson  of  Ayr,  and  a 
younger  brother  of  his,  now  in  Jamaica,  who  were 
much  younger  than  us.  I had  almost  forgot  to  mention 
I Dr.  Charles  of  Ayr,  who  was  a little  older  than  my 
I brother,  and  with  whom  we  had  a longer  and  closer 
intimacy'  than  with  any  of  the  others,  which  did  not, 

I however,  continue  in  after  life.” 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


175 


**  Sir, — I was  lately  favored  with  a letter 
from  our  worthy  friend,  the  Rev.  Wm.  Adair, 
in  which  he  requested  me  to  communicate  to 
you  whatever  particulars  I could  recollect  con- 
cerning Robert  Burns,  the  Ayrshire  poet.  My 
business  being  at  present  multifarious  and  har- 
assing. my  attention  is  consequently  so  much 
divided,  and  1 am  so  little  in  the  habit  of  ex- 
pressing my  thoughts  on  paper,  that  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time  I can  give  but  a very  imperfect 
sketch  of  the  early  part  of  the  life  of  that  ex- 
traordinary genius,  with  which  alone  I am  ac- 
quainted. 

•*  William  Burnes,  the  father  of  the  poet,  was 
born  in  the  shire  of  Kincardine,  and  bred  a 
gardener.  He  had  been  settled  in  Ayrshire  ten 
or  twelve  years  before  I knew  him,  and  had 
been  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Crawford,  of  Doon- 
side.  lie  was  afterwards  employed  as  a gar- 
dener and  overseer  by  Provost  Ferguson  of 
Doonholm,  in  the  parish  of  Alloway,  which  is 
now  united  with  that  of  Ayr.  In  this  parish, 
on  the  road  side,  a Scotch  mile  and  a half  from 
the  town  of  Ayr,  and  half  a mile  from  t lie 
bridge  of  Doon,  William  Burnes  took  a piece 
of  land,  consisting  of  about  seven  acres  ; part 
of  which  he  laid  out  in  garden  ground,  and  part 
of  which  he  kept  to  graze  a cow,  &c.,  still  con- 
tinuing in  the  employ  of  Provost  Ferguson. 
Upon  this  little  farm  was  erected  an  humble 
dwelling,  of  which  William  Burnes  was  the 
architect.  It  was,  with  the  exception  of  a little 
straw,  literally  a tabernacle  of  clay.  In  this 
mean  cottage,  of  which  I myself  was  at  times 
an  inhabitant,  1 really  believe  there  dwelt  a 
larger  portion  of  content  than  in  any  palace  in 
Europe.  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  will 
give  some  idea  of  the  temper  and  manners  that 
prevailed  there. 

“ In  1765,  about  the  middle  of  March,  Mr. 
W.  Burnes  came  to  Ayr,  and  sent  to  the  school 
where  1 was  improving  in  writing,  under  my 
good  friend  Mr.  Robinson,  desiring  that  1 would 
come  and  speak  to  him  at  a certain  inn,  and 
bring  my  writing-book  with  me.  This  was 
immediately  complied  with.  Having  examined 
my  writing,  he  was  pleased  with  it — (you  will 
readily  allow  he  was  not  difficult,)  and  told  me 
that  he  had  received  very  satisfactory  informa- 
tion of  Mr.  Tennant,  the  master  of  the  English 
school,  concerning  my  improvement  in  English, 
and  his  method  of  teaching.  In  the  month  of 
May  following,  I was  engaged  by  Mr.  Burnes, 
and  four  of  his  neighbors,  to  teach,  and  accord- 
ingly began  to  teach  the  lirtle  school  at  Allo- 
way. which  was  situated  a fewr  yards  from  the 
argillaceous  fabric  above-mentioned.  My  five 
employers  undertook  to  board  me  by  turns,  and 
to  make  up  a certain  salary,  at  the  end  of  the 
year,  provided  my  quarterly  payments  from  the 
different  pupils  did  not  amount  to  that  sum. 

•*  My  pupil,  Robert  Burns,  was  then  between 
six  and  seven  years  of  age  ; his  preceptor  about 
eighteen.  Robert,  and  his  younger  brother, 
Gilbert,  had  been  grounded  a little  in  English 
before  they  were  put  under  my  care.  They 
both  made  a rapid  progress  in  reading,  and  a 
tolerable  progress  in  writing.  In  reading,  divid- 
ing words  into  syllables  by  rule,  spelling  with- 
out book,  parsing  sentences,  &c.,  Robert  and 
Gilbert  were  generally  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
class,  even  when  ranged  with  boys  by  far  their 
seniors.  The  books  most  commonly  used  in 


I 


the  school  were  the  Spelling  Booh,  the  New 
Testament,  the  Bible,  Mason  s Collection  of 
Prose  and  Verse,  and  Fisher's  English  Gram- 
mar. They  committed  to  memory  the  hymns, 
and  other  poems  of  that  collection,  with  un- 
common facility.  This  facility  was  partly  ow- 
ing to  the  method  pursued  by  their  father  and 
me  in  instructing  them,  which  was,  to  make 
them  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  meaning 
of  every  word  in  each  sentence  that  was  to  be 
committed  to  memory.  By  the  by,  this  may  be 
easier  done,  and  at  an  earlier  period  than  is  gen- 
erally thought.  As  soon  as  they  were  capable 
of  it,  I taught  them  to  turn  verse  into  its  nat- 
ural prose  order;  sometimes  to  substitute  sy- 
nonymous expressions  for  poetical  words,  and  to 
supply  all  the  ellipses.  These,  you  know,  are 
the  means  of  knowing  that  the  pupil  understands 
his  author.  These  are  excellent  helps  to  the 
arrangement  of  words  in  sentences,  as  well  as 
to  a variety  of  expression. 

“ Gilbert  always  appeared  to  me  to  possess  a 
more  lively  imagination,  and  to  be  more  of  the 
wit  than  Robert.  1 attempted  to  teach  them 
a little  church-music  : here  they  were  left  far  be- 
hind by  all  the  rest  of  the  school.  Robert’s  ear, 
in  particular,  was  remarkably  dull,  and  his  voice 
untunable.  It  was  long  before  I could  get  them 
to  distinguish  one  tune  from  another.  Robert’s 
countenance  was  generally  grave,  and  expres- 
sive of  a serious,  contemplative,  and  thoughful 
mind.  Gilbert’s  face  said.  Mirth,  with  thee  1 
mean  to  live  ; and  certainly,  if  any  person  who 
knew  the  two  boys,  had  been  asked  which  of  them 
was  most  likely  to  court  the  muses,  he  would 
surely  never  have  guessed  that  Robert  had  a 
propensity  of  that  kind. 

“ In  the  year  1769,  Mr.  Burnes  quitted  his 
mud  edifice,  and  took  possession  of  a farm 
(Mount  Oliphant)  of  his  own  improving,  while 
in  the  service  of  Provost  Ferguson.  This  farm 
being  a considerable  distance  from  the  school, 
the  boys  could  not  attend  regularly  ; and  some 
changes  taking  place  among  the  other  support- 
ers of  the  school,  I left  it,  having  continued  to 
conduct  it  for  nearly  two  years  and  a half. 

“ In  the  year  1772,  I was  appointed  (being 
one  of  five  candidates  who  were  examined)  to 
teach  the  English  school  at  Ayr  ; and  in  1773, 
Robert  Burns  came  to  board  and  lodge  with  me, 
for  the  purpose  of  revising  the  English  grammar, 
&c.  that  he  might  be  better  qualified  to  instruct 
his  brothers  and  sisters  at  home.  lie  was  now 
with  me  day  and  night  in  school,  at  all  meals, 
and  in  all  my  walks.  At  the  end  of  one  week, 
1 told  him.  that  as  he  was  now  pretty  much  the 
master  of  the  parts  of  speech,  & c.,  I should  like 
to  teach  him  something  of  French  pronunciation; 
that  when  he  should  meet  with  the  name  of  a 
French  town,  ship,  officer,  or  the  like,  in  the 
newspapers,  he  might  be  able  to  pronounce  it 
something  like  a French  word.  Robert  was  glad 
to  hear  this  proposal,  and  immediately  we  at- 
tacked the  French  with  great  courage. 

“ Now  there  was  little  else  to  be  heard  but 
the  declension  of  nouns, the  conjugation  of  verbs, 
&,c.  When  walking  together,  and  even  at 
meals,  I was  constantly  telling  him  the  names 
of  different  objects  as  they  presented  themselves 
in  French  ; so  that  he  was 'hourly  laying  in  a 
stock  of  words,  and  sometimes  little  phrases. 
In  short,  he  took  such  pleasure  in  learning,  and 
I in  teaching,  that  it  was  difficult  to  say  which 


176 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


of  the  two  was  most  zealous  in  the  business  ; 
and  about  the  end  of  the  second  week  of  our 
study  of  the  French,  we  began  to  read  a little 
of  the  Adventures  of  Telemachus,  in  Fenelon’s 
own  words. 

“ But  now  the  plains  of  Mount  Oliphant  be- 
gan to  whiten,  and  Robert  was  summoned  to 
relinquish  the  pleasing  scenes  that  surrounded 
the  grotto  of  Calypso  ; and  armed  with  a sickle, 
to  seek  glory  by  signalizing  himself  in  the  fields 
of  Ceres — and  so  he  did  ; for  although  but  about 
fifteen,  I was  told  he  performed  the  work  of  a 
man. 

“ Thus  was  I deprived  of  a very  apt  pupil, 
and  consequently  agreeable  companion,  at  the 
end  of  three  weeks,  one  of  which  was  spent  en- 
tirely in  the  study  of  English,  and  the  other  two 
chiefly  in  that  of  French.  I did  not,  however, 
lose  sight  of  him  ; but  was  a frequent  visitant  at 
his  father’s  house,  when  I had  my  half-holi- 
day ; and  very  often  went,  accompanied  with 
one  or  two  persons  more  intelligent  than  myself, 
that  good  William  Burnes  might  enjoy  a men- 
tal feast.  Then  the  laboring  oar  was  shifted  to 
some  other  hand.  The  father  and  son  sat  down 
with  us,  when  we  enjoyed  a conversation, where- 
in solid  reasoning,  sensible  remark,  and  a mod- 
erate seasoning  of  jocularity,  were  so  nicely  blen- 
ded as  to  render  it  palatable  to  all  parties.  Rob- 
ert had  a hundred  questions  to  ask  me  about  the 
French,  &c. ; and  the  father,  who  had  always 
rational  information  in  view,  had  still  some  ques- 
tion to  propose  to  my  more  learned  friends,  up- 
on moral  or  natural  philosophy,  or  some  such  in- 
teresting subject.  Mrs.  Burnes  too  was  of  the 
party  as  much  as  possible  ; 

“ But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence, 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch, 

She’d  come  again,  and  with  a greedy  ear, 

Devour  up  their  discourse,” — 

and  particularly  that  of  her  husband.  At  all 
times,  and  in  all  companies,  she  listened  to  him 
with  a more  marked  attention  than  to  any  body 
else.  When  under  the  necessity  of  being  ab- 
sent while  he  was  speaking,  she  seemed  to  re- 
gret, as  a real  loss,  that  she  had  missed  what 
the  good  man  had  said.  This  worthy  woman, 
Agnes  Brown,  had  the  most  thorough  esteem  for 
her  husband  of  any  woman  I ever  knew.  I can 
by  no  means  wonder  that  she  highly  esteemed 
him  ; for  I myself  have  always  considered  Wil- 
liam Burnes  as  by  far  the  best  of  the  human 
race  that  ever  I had  the  pleasure  of  being  ac- 
quainted with — and  many  a worthy  character  I 
have  known.  1 can  cheerfully  join  with  Rob- 
ert, in  the  last  line  of  his  epitaph  (borrowed  from 
Goldsmith,) 

“ And  even  his  failings  lean’d  to  virtue’s  side.” 

“ He  was  an  excellent  husband,  if  I may  judge 
from  his  assiduous  attention  to  the  ease  and  com- 
fort of  his  worthy  partner,  and  from  her  affec- 
tionate behavior  to  him,  as  well  as  her  unwear- 
ied attention  to  the  duties  of  a mother. 

“ He  was  a tender  and  affectionate  father;  he 
took  pleasure  in  leading  his  children  in  the  path 
of  virtue  ; not  in  driving  them  as  some  parents 
do,  to  the  performance  of  duties  to  which  they 
themselves  are  averse.  He  took  care  to  find 
fault  very  seldom  ; and  therefore  when  he  did  re- 
buke, he  was  listened  to  with  a kind  of  rever- 
ential awe.  A look  of  disapprobation  was  felt ; 
a reproof  was  severely  so  ; and  a stripe  with  the 


tawz,  even  on  the  skirt  of  the  coat,  gave  heart- 
felt pain,  produced  a loud  lamentation,  and 
brought  forth  a flood  of  tears. 

“ He  had  the  art  of  gaining  the  esteem  and 
good-will  of  those  that  were  laborers  under  him. 
I think  I never  saw  him  angry  but  twice  ; the 
one  time  it  was  with  the  foreman  of  the  band, 
for  not  reaping  the  field  as  he  was  desired  ; and 
the  other  time  it  was  with  an  old  man,  for  using 
smutty  inuendoes  and  double  entendres.  Were 
every  foul-mouthed  old  man  to  receive  a season- 
able check  in  this  way,  it  would  be  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  rising  generation.  As  he  was  at 
no  time  overbearing  to  inferiors,  he  was  equally 
incapable  of  that  passive,  pitiful,  paltry  spirit,  that 
induces  some  people  to  keep  booing  and  booing 
in  the  presence  of  a great  man.  He  always  treat- 
ed superiors  with  a becoming  respect : but  he 
never  gave  the  smallest  encouragement  to  aris- 
tocratical  arrogance.  But  I must  not  pretend  to 
give  you  a description  of  all  the  manly  qualities, 
the  rational  and  Christian  virtues,  of  the  vener- 
able William  Burnes.  Time  would  fail  me.  I 
shall  only  add,  that  he  carefully  practised  every 
known  duty,  and  avoided  every  thing  that  was 
criminal ; or,  in  the  apostle’s  words,  Herein  did 
he  exercise  himself  in  living  a life  void  of  of- 
fence towards  God  and  towards  men.  O for  a 
world  of  men  of  such  dispositions  ! We  should 
then  have  no  wars.  I have  often  wished,  for  the 
good  of  mankind,  that  it  were  as  customary  to 
honor  and  perpetuate  the  memory  of  those  who 
excel  in  moral  rectitude,  as  it  is  to  extol  what 
are  called  heroic  actions  : then  would  the  mau- 
soleum of  the  friend  of  my  youth  overtop  and 
surpass  most  of  the  monuments  I see  in  West- 
minster Abbey. 

“ Although  1 cannot  do  justice  to  the  charac- 
ter of  this  worthy  man,  yet  you  will  perceive 
from  these  few  particulars,  what  kind  of  person 
had  the  principal  hand  in  the  education  of  our 
poet.  He  spoke  the  English  language  with  more 
propriety  (both  with  respect  to  diction  and  pro- 
nunciation,) than  any  man  I ever  knew  with 
no  greater  advantages.  This  had  a very  good 
effect  on  the  boys,  who  began  to  talk  and  rea- 
son like  men,  much  sooner  than  their  neighbors. 
I do  not  recollect  any  of  their  contemporaries,  at 
my  little  seminary,  who  afterwards  made  any 
great  figure,  as  literary  characters,  except  Dr. 
Tennant,  who  was  chaplain  to  Colonel  Eullar- 
ton’s  regiment,  and  who  is  now  in  the  East  In- 
dies. He  is  a man  of  genius  and  learning ; yet 
affable,  and  free  from  pedantry. 

“ Mr.  Burnes,  in  a short  time,  found  that  he 
had  over-rated  Mount  Oliphant,  and  that  he 
could  not  rear  his  numerous  family  upon  it.  Af- 
ter being  there  some  years,  he  removed  to  Loch- 
lea,  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  where,  I believe, 
Robert  wrote  the  most  of  his  poems. 

“ But  here,  Sir,  you  will  permit  me  to  pause. 
I can  tell  you  but  little  more  relative  to  our  poet. 
I shall,  however,  in  my  next,  send  you  a copy  of 
one  of  his  letters  to  me,  about  the  year  1783. 
I received  one  since,  but  it  is  mislaid.  Please  re- 
member me,  in  the  best  manner,  to  my  worthy 
friend  Mr.  Adair,  when  you  see  him,  or  w'rit© 
to  him. 

“ Hart-street,  Bloomsbury -Square,'} 

London,  Ftb.  22,  1789.”  ) 

As  the  narrative  of  Gilbert  Burns  was  writ- 
ten at  a time  when  he  was  ignorant  of  the  ex- 
istence of  the  preceding  narrative  of  his  brother, 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


so  this  letter  of  Mr.  Murdoch  was  written  with- 
out his  having  any  knowledge  that  either  of  his 
pupils  had  been  employed  on  the  same  subject. 
The  three  relations  serve,  therefore,  not  mere- 
ly to  illustrate,  but  to  authenticate  each  other. 
Though  the  information  they  convey  might 
have  been  presented  within  a shorter  compass, 
by  reducing  the  whole  into  one  unbroken  narra- 
tive, it  is  scarcely  to  be  doubted,  that  the  in- 
telligent reader  will  be  far  more  gratified  by  a 
a sight  of  these  original  documents  them- 
selves. 

Under  the  humble  roof  of  his  parents,  it  ap- 
pears indeed  that  our  poet  had  great  advantages: 
but  his  opportunities  of  information  at  school 
were  more  limited  as  to  time  than  they  usu- 
ally are  among  his  countrymen  in  his  condition 
of  life  ; and  the  acquisitions  which  he  made,  and 
the  poetical  talent  which  he  exerted,  under  the 
pressure  of  early  and  incessant  toil,  and  of  in- 
ferior, and  perhaps  scanty  nutriment,  testify  at 
once  the  extraordinary  force  and  activity  of  his 
tnind.  In  his  frame  of  body  he  rose  nearly  to 
five  feet  ten  inches,  and  assumed  the  propor- 
tions that  indicate  agility  as  well  as  strength. 
In  the  various  labors  of  the  farm  he  excelled 
all  his  competitors.  Gilbert  Burns  declares 
that  in  mowing,  the  exercise  that  tries  all  the 
muscles  most  severely,  Robert  was  the  only 
man,  that  at  the  end  of  a summer's  day  he  was 
ever  obliged  to  acknowledge  as  his  master.  But 
though  our  poet  gave  the  powers  of  his  body  to 
the  labors  of  the  farm,  he  refused  to  bestow  on 
them  his  thoughts  or  his  cares.  While  the 
ploughshare  under  his  guidance  passed  through 
the  sward,  or  the  grass  fell  under  the  sweep  of 
his  scythe,  he  was  humming  the  s=ongs  of  his 
country,  musing  on  the  deeds  of  ancient  valor, 
or  rapt  in  the  illusions  of  Fancy,  as  her  en- 
chantments rose  on  his  view.  Happily  the 
Sunday  is  yet  a sabbath,  on  which  man  and 
beast  rest  from  their  labors.  On  this  day,  there- 
fore, Burns  could  indulge  in  a free  intercourse 
with  the  charms  of  nature.  It  was  his  delight 
to  wander  alone  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  whose 
6tream  is  now  immortal,  and  to  listen  to  the 
song  of  the  blackbird  at  the  close  of  the  summer’s 
day.  But  still  greater  was  his  pleasure,  as  he 
himself  informs  us.  in  walking  on  the  sheltered 
side  of  a wood,  in  a cloudy  winter  day,  and 
hearing  the  storm  rave  among  the  trees  ; and 
more  elevated  still  his  delight,  to  ascend  some 
eminence  during  the  agitations  of  nature;  to 
stride  along  its  summit,  while  the  lightning 
flashed  around  him  ; and  amidst  the  howlings 
of  the  tempest,  to  apostrophize  the  spirit  of  the 
storm.  Such  situations  he  declares  most  favor- 
able to  devotion. — “ Rapt  in  enthusiasm,  I seem 
to  ascend  towards  Him  who  walks  on  the  wings  j 
of  the  winds  /”  If  other  proofs  were  wanting  of  I 
the  character  of  his  genius,  this  might  determine  ! 
it.  The  heart  of  the  poet  is  peculiarly  awake  J 
to  every  impression  of  beauty  and  sublimity;  1 
but,  with  the  higher  order  of  poets,  the  beauti-  < 
ful  !3  less  attractive  than  the  sublime. 

The  gayety  of  many  of  Burns’s  writings,  and  | 
the  lively,  and  even  cheerful  coloring  with  which 
he  has  portrayed  his  own  character,  may  lead 
some  persons  to  suppose,  that  the  melancholy 
which  hung  over  him  towards  the  end  of  his 
days  was  not  an  original  part  of  his  constitution. 
It  is  not  to  be  doubted,  indeed,  that  this  melan- 
choly acquired  a darker  hue  in  the  progress  of  j 


! his  life  ; but,  independent  of  his  own  and  of 
j his  brother’s  testimony,  evidence  is  to  be  found 
among  his  papers,  that  he  was  subject  very  early 
to  those  depressions  of  mind, ‘which  are  perhaps 
not  wholly  separate  from  the  sensibility  of  ge- 
nius, but  which  in  him  rose  to  an  uncommon 
! degree.  The  following  letter,  addressed  to  his 
father,  will  serve  as  a proof  of  this  observation. 
It  was  written  at  the  time  when  he  was  learn- 
ing the  business  of  a flax-dresser,  and  is  da- 
ted, 

Irvine,  December  27,  1781. 

“ Honored  Sir — 1 have  purposely  delayed 
writing,  in  the  hope  that  I should  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  on  New-year’s-day,  but 
work  comes  so  hard  upon  us,  that  I do  not  choose 
to  be  absent  on  that  account,  as  well  as  for  some 
other  little  reasons,  which  I shall  tell  you  at 
meeting.  My  health  is  nearly  the  same  as 
when  you  were  here,  only  my  sleep  is  a little 
sounder ; and,  on  the  whole,  I am  rather  better 
than  otherwise,  though  I mend  by  very  slow 
degrees.  The  weakness  of  my  nerves  has  so 
debilitated  my  mind,  that  I dare  neither  review 
past  wants,  nor  look  forward  into  futurity  ; for 
the  least  anxiety  or  perturbation  in  my  breast, 
produces  most  unhappy  effects  on  my  whole 
frame.  Sometimes,  indeed,  when  for  an  hour 
or  two  my  spirits  are  a little  lightened,  I glim- 
mer into  futurity  ; but  my  principal,  and  indeed 
my  only  pleasurable  employment,  is  looking 
backwards  and  forwards  in  a moral  and  relig- 
ious way.  I am  transported  at  the  thought,  that 
ere  long,  very  soon,  I shall  bid  an  eternal  adieu 
to  all  the  pains,  and  uneasiness,  and  disquietudes 
of  this  weary  life  ; for  I assure  you  I am  heartily 
tired  of  it  ; and.  if  I do  not  very  much  deceive 
myself,  I could  contentedly  and  gladly  resign 
it, 

‘ The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confin’d  at  home, 

Rests  and  expatiates  in  a life  to  come.’ 

“ Tt  is  for  this  reason  I am  more  pleased  with 
the  15th,  16th,  and  17th  verses  of  the  7th  chapter 
of  Revelations,  than  wiih  any  ten  times  as  many 
verses  in  the  w’hole  Bible,  and  would  not  ex- 
change the  noble  enthusiasm  with  which  they 
inspire  me,  for  all  that  this  world  has  to  offer.* 
As  for  inis  world,  I despair  of  ever  making  a 
figure  in  it.  I am  not  formed  for  the  bustle  of 
the  busy,  nor  the  flutter  of  the  gay.  I shall 
never  again  be  capable  of  entering  into  such 
scenes.  Indeed  I am  altogether  unconcerned 
at  the  thoughts  of  this  life.  I foresee  that  pov- 
erty and  obscurity  probably  await  me.  I am  in 
some  measure  prepared,  and  daily  preparing  to 
meet  them.  I have  but  just  time  and  paper  to 
return  you  my  grateful  thanks  for  the  lessons 
of  virtue  and  piety  you  have  given  me,  which 
were  too  much  neglected  at  the  time  of  giving 
thorp,  but  which,  I hope,  have  been  remem- 
bered ere  it  is  yet  too  late.  Present  my  duti- 
ful respects  to  my  mother,  and  my  compliments 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Muir;  and  with  wishing  you 

*Thc  verses  of  Scripture  here  alluded  to,  are  as 
follows  : 

15.  Therefore  are  they  before  the  throne  of  God , 
and  serve  him  day  and  night  in  his  temple  ; and  he  that 
sitteth  on  the  tlione  shall  dwell  among  them. 

16.  They  shall  hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any 
more  ; neither  shall  the  sun  light  on  them,  nor  any  heat. 

1 7.  For  the  Lamb , which  is  in  the  midst,  of  the  throne , 
shall  feed  them,  and  shall  lead  them  unto  living  foun- 
tains of  water  ; and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears 
from  their  eyes. 


178 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


a merry  New-year’s-day,  T shall  conclude.  I 
am,  honored  Sir,  your  dutiful  son, 

“ Robert  Burns.” 

“ P.  S.  My  meal  is  nearly  out ; but  I am  go- 
ing to  borrow,  till  I get  more.” 

This  letter,  written  several  years  before  the 
publication  of  his  poems,  when  his  name  was 
as  obscure  as  his  condition  was  humble,  dis- 
plays the  philosophic  melancholy  w’hich  so  gen- 
erally forms  the  poetical  temperament,  and  that 
buoyant  and  ambitious  spirit  which  indicates  a 
mind  conscious  of  its  strength.  At  Irvine, 
Burns  at  this  time  possessed  a single  room  for 
his  lodging,  rented  perhaps  at  the  rate  of  a shil- 
ling a week.  He  passed  his  days  in  constant 
labor  as  a flax-dresser.,  and  his  food  consisted 
chiefly  of  oatmeal,  sent  to  him  from  his  father’s 
family.  The  store  of  this  humble,  though 
wholesome  nutriment,  it  appears,  was  nearly 
exhausted,  and  he  was  about  to  borrow  till  he 
should  obtain  a supply.  Yet  even  in  this  situ- 
ation, his  active  imagination  had  formed  to  itself 
pictures  of  eminence  and  distinction.  His  de- 
spair of  making  a figure  in  the  world,  shows 
how  ardently  he  wished  for  honorable  fame  ; 
and  his  contempt  of  life,  founded  on  this  despair, 
is  the  genuine  expression  of  a youthful  and 
generous  mind.  In  such  a state  of  reflection, 
and  of  suffering,  the  imagination  of  Burns,  nat- 
urally passed  the  dark  boundaries  of  our  earthly 
horizon,  and  rested  on  those  beautiful  repre- 
sentations of  a bet  ter  world,  where  there  is  nei- 
ther thirst,  nor  hunger,  nor  sorrow  ; and  where 
happiness  shall  be  in  proportion  to  the  capacity 
of  happiness. 

Such  a disposition  is  far  from  being  at  vari- 
ance with  social  enjoyments.  Those  who  have 
studied  the  affinities  of  mind,  know  that  a mel- 
ancholy of  this  description,  after  a while,  seeks 
relief  in  the  endearments  of  society,  and  that  it 
has  no  distant  connection  with  the  flow  of  cheer- 
fulness, or  even  the  extravagance  of  mirth.  It 
was  a few  days  after  the  writing  of  this  letter 
that  our  poet,  “in  giving  a welcome  carousal 
to  the  new-year,  with  his  gay  companions,” 
suffered  his  flax  to  catch  fire,  and  his  shop  to  lie 
consumed  to  ashes. 

The  energy  of  Burns’s  mind  was  not  exhaust- 
ed by  his  daily  labors,  the  effusion  of  his  muse, 
his  social  pleasures,  or  his  solitary  meditations. 
Some  time  previous  to  his  engagement  as  a flax- 
dresser,  having  heard  that  a deba'.ing-club  had 
been  established  in  Ayr,  he  resolved  to  try  how 
such  a meeting  would  succeed  in  the  village  of 
Tarbolton.  About  the  end  of  the  year  1780, 
our  poet,  his  brother,  and  five  other  young 
peasants  of  the  neighborhood,  formed  them- 
selves into  a society  of  this  sort,  the  declared 
objects  of  which  were  to  relax  themselves  after 
toil,  to  promote  sociality  and  friendship,  and  to 
improve  the  mind.  The  laws  and  regulations 
were  furnished  by  Burns.  The  members  were 
to  meet  after  the  labors  of  the  day  were  over, 
once  a week,  in  a small  public-house  in  the  vil- 
lage; where  each  should  offer  his  opinion  on  a 
given  question  or  subject,  supporting  it  by  such 
arguments  as  he  thought  proper.  The  debate 
was  to  be  conducted  with  order  and  decorum  ; 
and  after  it  was  finished,  the  members  were  to 
choose  a subject  for  discussion  at  the  ensuing 
meeting.  The  sum  expended  by  each  was  not 
to  exceed  threepence ; and,  with  the  humble 
potation  that  this  could  procure,  they  were  to 


toast  their  mistresses,  and  to  cultivate  friend- 
ship with  each  other.  This  society  continued 
its  meetings  regularly  for  some  time ; and  in 
the  autumn  of  1782,  wishing  to  preserve  some 
account  of  their  proceedings,  they  purchased  a 
book,  into  which  their  laws  and  regulations  were 
copied,  with  a preamble,  containinig  a short 
history  of  their  transactions  down  to  that  period. 
This  curious  document,  which  is  evidently  the 
work  of  our  poet,  has  been  discovered,  and  it 
deserves  a place  in  his  memoirs. 

“ History  of  the  Rise,  Proceedings , and  Regulations 
of  the  Bachelor's  Club. 

“ Of  b rth  or  blood  we  do  not  boast, 

Nor  gentry  does  our  club  afford  ; 

But  ploughmen  and  mechanics  we 
In  Nature’s  simple  dress  record.” 

“ As  the  great  end  of  human  society  is  to  be- 
come wiser  and  better,  this  ought  therefore  to 
be  the  principal  view  of  every  man  in  every  sta- 
tion of  life.  But  as  experience  has  taught  us, 
that  such  studies  as  inform  the  head  and  mend 
the  heart,  when  long  continued,  are  apt  to  ex- 
haust the  faculties  of  the  mind,  it  has  been  found 
proper  to  relieve  and  unbend  the  mind  by  some 
employment  or  another,  that  may  be  agreeable 
enough  to  keep  its  powers  in  exercise,  but  at 
the  same  time  not  so  serious  as  to  exhaust  them. 
But,  superadded  to  this,  by  far  the  greater  part 
of  mankind  are  under  the  necessity  of  earning 
the  sustenance  of  human  life  by  the  labors  of  their 
bodies,  whereby,  not  only  the  faculties  of  the 
mind,  but  the  nerves  and  sinews  of  the  body, 
are  so  fatigued,  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
have  recourse  to  some  amusement  or  diversion, 
to  relieve  the  wearied  man,  worn  down  with  the 
necessary  labors  of  life. 

“ As  the  best  of  things,  however,  have  been 
perverted  to  the  worst  of  purposes,  so,  under  the 
pretence  of  amusement  and  diversion,  men  have 
plunged  into  all  the  madness  of  riot  and  dissipa- 
tion ; and,  instead  of  attending  to  the  grand  de- 
sign of  human  life,  they  have  begun  with  extrav- 
agance and  folly,  and  ended  with  guilt  and 
wretchedness.  Impressed  with  these  consider- 
ations, we,  the  following  lads  in  the  parish  of 
Tarbolton,  viz.  Hugh  Reid,  Robert  Burns,  Gil- 
bert Burns,  Alexander  Brown,  Walter  Mitchell, 
Thomas  Wright,  and  William  M’Gavin,  resolv- 
ed, for  our  mutual  entertainment,  to  unite  our- 
selves into  a club,  or  society,  under  such  rules 
and  regulations,  that  while  we  should  forget  our 
labor,  in  mirth  and  diversion,  we  might  not 
transgress  the  bounds  of  innocence  and  decorum; 
and  after  agreeing  on  these,  and  some  other  reg- 
ulations, we  held  our  first  meeting  at  Tarbolton, 
in  the  house  of  John  Richard,  upon  the  evening 
of  the  11th  of  November,  1780,  commonly  call- 
ed Hallowe’en,  and  after  choosing  Robert  Burns 
president  for  the  night,  we  proceeded  to  debate 
on  this  question — Suppose  a young  man,  bred  a 
farmer , but  without  any  fortune,  has  it  in  his 
■power  to  marry  either  of  two  iromen,  the  one  a 
girl  of  large  fortune,  but  neither  handsome  in 
person,  nor  agreeable  in  conversation,  but  who 
can  manage  the  household  affa  irs  of  a farm  well 
enough;  the  other  of  them  a girl  every  way  agree- 
able in  conversation . and  behavior,  but  unthout 
any  fortune:  which  of  them  shall  he  choose?  F ind- 
ing  ourselves  happy,  in  our  society,  we  resolv- 
ed to  continue  to  meet  once  a month  in  the  same 
house,  in  the  way  and  manner  proposed,  and 
shortly  thereafter,  we  chose  Robert  Ritchie  for 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


17D 


another  member.  In  May,  17S1,  we  brought 
in  David  Sillur,*  and  in  Jane  Adam  Jamaison, 
as  members.  About  the  beginning  of  the  year 
1782,  we  admitted  Matthew  Patterson,  and  John 
Orr,  and  in  June  following  we  chose  James  Pat- 
terson as  a proper  brother  for  such  a society. 
The  club  being  thus  increased,  we  resolved  to 
meet  at  Tarbolton  on  the  race  night,  the  July  fol- 
lowing, and  have  a dance  in  honor  of  our  society. 
Accordingly  we  did  meet,  each  one  with  a part- 
ner, and  spent  the  evening  in  such  innocence  and 
merriment,  such  cheerfulness  and  good  humor, 
that  every  brother  will  long  remember  it.  with 
pleasure  and  delight.’’  To  this  preamble  are 
subjoined  the  rules  and  regulations,  t 

The  philosophical  mind  will  dwell  with  inter- 
est and  pleasure,  on  an  institution  that  combin- 
ed so  skillfully  the  means  of  instruction  and  of 
happiness,  and  if  grandeur  looks  down  with  a 
smile  on  these  simple  annals,  let  us  trust  that  it 
will  be  a smile  of  benevolence  and  approbation. 
It  is  with  regret  that  the  sequel  of  the  history  of 
the  Bachelor’s  Club  of  Tarbolton  must  be  told. 
It  survived  several  years  after  our  poet  removed 
from  Ayrshire  ; but  no  longer  sustained  by  his 
talents,  or  cemented  by  his  social  affection,  its 
meetings  lost  much  of  their  attraction;  and  at 
length,  in  an  evil  hour,  dissension  arising  among 
its  members,  the  institution  was  given  up,  and 
the  records  committed  to  the  flames.  Happily 
the  preamble  and  regulations  were  spared;  and  as 
matter  of  instruction  and  of  example,  they  are 
transmitted  to  posterity. 

After  the  family  of  our  bard  removed  from 
Tarbolton  to  the  neighborhood  of  Mauchline, 
he  and  his  brother  were  requested  to  assist  in 
forming  a similar  institution  there.  The  regu- 
lations of  the  club  at  Mauchline  were  nearly  the 
same  as  those  of  the  club  at  Tarbolton  ; but  one 
laudable  alteration  was  made.  The  fines  for  non- 
attendance  had  at  Tarbolton  been  spent  in  en- 
larging their  scanty  potations  ; at  Mauchline  it 
was  fixed,  that  the  money  so  arising,  should  be 
set  apart  for  the  purchase  of  books,  and  the  first 
work  procured  in  this  manner  was  the  Mirror, 
the  separate  numbers  of  which  were  at  that  time 
recently  collected  and  published  in  volumes. 
After  it  followed  a number  of  other  works,  chief- 
ly of  the  same  nature,  and  among  these  the 
Lounger.  The  society  of  ?vlauchline  still  sub- 
sists, and  appeared  in  the  list  of  subscribers  to 
the  first  edition  of  the  works  of  its  celebrated 
associate. 

The  members  of  these  two  societies  were  orig- 
inally all  young  men  from  the  country, and  chief- 
ly sons  of  farmers;  a description  of  persons , in  the 
opinion  of  our  poet,  more  agreeable  in  their  man- 
ners, more  virtuous  in  their  conduct,  and  more 
susceptible  of  improvement,  than  the  self-suf- 
ficient mechanics  of  country-towns.  With  def- 
erence to  the  conversation  society  of  Mauchline, 
it  may  be  doubted,  whether  the  books  which 
they  purchased  were  of  a kind  best  adapted 
to  promote  the  interest  and  happiness  of  persons 
in  this  situation  of  life.  The  Mirror  and  the 
Lounger,  though  works  of  great  merit,  may  be 
said,  on  a general  view  of  their  contents,  to  be 
less  calculated  to  increase  the  knowledge,  than 
to  refine  the  taste  of  those  who  read  them  ; and 
to  this  last  object,  their  morality  itself,  may  be 

*The  person  to  whom  Burns  addressed  his  Epistle 
to  Davie,  a brother  poet. 

* For  which  sec  Appendix,  No.  II..  JVote  C. 


considered  as  subordinate.  As  works  of  taste, 
they  deserve  great  praise.  They  are  indeed  re- 
fined to  a high  degree  of  delicacy  ; and  to  this 
circumstance  it  is  perhaps  owing,  that  they  ex- 
hibit little  or  nothing  of  the  peculiar  manners  of 
the  age  or  country  in  which  they  were  produced, 
But  delicacy  of  taste,  though  the  source  of  many 
pleasures,  is  not  without  many  disadvantages  ; 
and  to  render  it  desirable,  the  possessor  should 
perhaps  in  all  cases  be  raised  above  the  neces- 
sity of  bodily  labor,  unless  indeed  we  should  in- 
clude under  this  term  the  exercise  of  the  imita- 
tive arts,  over  which  taste  immediately  presides. 
Delicacy  of  taste  may  be  a blessing  to  him  who 
has  the  disposal  of  his  own  time,  and  who  can 
choose  what  book  he  shall  read,  of  what  diver- 
sion he  shall  partake,  and  what  company  he  shall 
keep.  To  men  so  situated,  the  cultivation  of 
taste  affords  a grateful  occupation  in  itself,  and 
opens  a path  to  many  other  gratifications.  To 
men  of  genius,  in  the  possession  of  opulence  and 
leisure,  the  cultivation  of  the  taste  may  be  said 
to  be  essential ; and  since  it  affords  employment 
to  those  faculties,  which  without  employment 
would  destroy  the  happiness  of  the  possessor, 
and  corrects  that  morbid  sensibility,  or,  to  use 
the  expressions  of  Mr.  Hume,  that  delicacy  of 
passion,  which  is  the  bane  of  the  temperament 
of  genius.  Happy  had  it  been  for  our  bard,  af- 
ter he  had  emerged  from  the  condition  of  a peas- 
ant, had  the  delicacy  of  his  taste  equalled  the 
sensibility  of  his  passions,  regulating  all  the  ef- 
fusions of  his  muse,  and  presiding  over  all  his 
social  enjoyments.  But  to  the  thousands  who 
share  the  original  condition  of  Burns,  and  who 
are  doomed  to  pass  their  lives  in  the  station  in 
which  they  were  born,  delicacy  of  taste,  were 
it  even  of  easy  attainment,  would,  if  not  a posi- 
tive evil,  be  at  least  a doubtful  blessing.  Delica- 
cy of  taste  may  make  many  necessary  labors 
irksome  or  disgusting ; and  should  it  render  the 
cultivator  of  the  soil  unhappy  in  his  situation, 
it  presents  no  means  by  which  that  situation  may 
be  improved.  Taste  and  literature,  which  dif- 
fuse so  many  charms  throughout  society,  which 
sometimes  secure  to  their  votaries  distinction 
while  living,  and  which  still  more  frequently 
obtain  for  them  posthumous  fame,  seldom  pro- 
cure opulence,  or  even  independence,  when  cul- 
tivated with  the  utmost  attention;  andean  scarce- 
ly be  pursued  with  advantage  by  the  peasant  in 
the  short  intervals  of  leisure  which  his  occu- 
pations allow.  Those  who  raise  themselves  from 
the  condition  of  daily  labor,  are  usually  men 
who  excel  in  the  practice  of  some  useful  art,  or 
who  join  habits  of  industry  and  sobriety  to  an 
acquaintance  with  some  of  the  more  common 
branches  of  knowledge.  The  penmanship  of 
Butterworth,  and  the  arithmetic  of  Cocker,  may 
be  studied  by  men  in  the  humblest  walks  of  life; 
and  they  will  assist  the  peasant  more  in  the  pur- 
suit of  independence,  than  the  study  of  Homer 
or  of  Shakspeare,  though  he  could  comprehend, 
and  even  imitate  the  beauties  of  those  immortal 
bards. 

These  observations  are  not  offered  without 
some  portion  of  doubt  and  hesitation.  The 
subject  has  many  relations,  and  would  justify 
an  ample  discussion.  It  may  be  observed,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  the  first  step  to  improve- 
ment is  to  awaken  the  desire  of  improvement, 
and  that  this  will  be  most  effectually  done  by 
such  reading  as  interests  the  heart  and  excites 


180 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


the  imagination.  The  greater  part  of  the  sa- 
cred writings  themselves,  which  in  Scotland  are 
more  especially  the  manual  of  the  poor,  come 
under  this  description.  It  may  be  farther  ob- 
served, that  every  human  being,  is  the  proper 
judge  of  his  own  happiness,  and  within  the  path 
of  innocence,  ought  to  be  permitted  to  pursue 
it.  Since  it  is  the  taste  of  the  Scottish  peasantry 
to  give  a preference  to  works  of  taste  and  of 
fancy,*  it  may  be  presumed  they  find  a superior 
gratification  in  the  perusal  of  such  works;  and 
it  may  be  added,  that  it  is  of  more  consequence 
they  should  be  made  happy  in  their  original 
condition,  than  furnished  with  the  means,  or 
with  the  desire  of  rising  above  it.  Such  consid- 
erations are  doubtless  of  much  weight ; never- 
theless, the  previous  reflections  may  deserve  to 
be  examined,  and  here  we  shall  leave  the  sub- 
ject. 

Though  the  records  of  the  society  at  Tarbol- 
ton  are  lost,  and  those  of  the  society  at  Mauch- 
line  have  not  been  transmitted,  yet  we  may 
safely  affirm,  that  our  poet  was  a distinguished 
member  of  both  these  associations,  which  were 
well  calculated  to  excite  and  to  develop  the 
powers  of  his  mind.  From  seven  to  twelve 
persons  constituted  the  society  of  Tarbolton, 
and  such  a number  is  best  suited  to  the  pur- 
poses of  information.  Where  this  is  the  object 
of  these  societies,  the  number  should  be  such, 
that  each  person  may  have  an  opportunity  of 
imparting  his  sentiments,  as  well  as  of  receiv- 
ing those  of  others  ; and  the  powers  of  private 
conversation  are  to  be  employed,  not  those  of 
public  debate.  A limited  society  of  this  kind, 
where  the  subject  of  conversation  is  fixed  be- 
forehand, so  that  each  member  may  revolve  it 
previously  in  his  mind,  is  perhaps  one  of  the 
happiest  contrivances  hitherto  discovered  for 
shortening  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  and  j 
hastening  the  evolution  of  talents.  Such  an  as- 
sociation requires  indeed  somewhat  more  of 
regulation  than  the  rules  of  politeness  establish 
in  common  conversation ; or  rather,  perhaps,  it 
requires  that  the  rules  of  politeness,  which  in 
animated  conversation  are  liable  to  perpetual 
violation,  should  be  rigorously  enforced.  The 
order  of  speech  established  in  the  club  at  Tarbol- 
ton, appears  to  have  been  more  regular  than 
wras  required  in  so  small  a society  ; + where  all 
that  is  necessary  seems  to  be  the  fixing  on  a 
member  to  whom  every  speaker  shall  address 
himself,  and  who  shall  in  return  secure  the 
speaker  from  interruption.  Conversation,  which 
among  men  whom  intimacy  and  friendship  have 
relieved  from  reserve  and  restraint,  is  liable, 
when  left  to  itself,  to  so  many  inequalities,  and 
which,  as  it  becomes  rapid,  so  often  diverges 
into  separate  and  collateral  branches,  in  which 
it  is  dissipated  and  lost,  being  kept  within  its 
channel  by  a simple  limitation  of  this  kind, 
which  practice  renders  easy  and  familiar,  flows 
along  in  one  full  stream,  and  becomes  smoother, 
and  clearer,  and  deeper,  as  it  flows.  It  may 
also  be  observed,  that  in  this  way  the  acquisi- 
tion of  know  ledge  becomes  more  pleasant  and 
more  easy,  from  the  gradual  improvement  of 

* In  several  lists  of  book-societies  among  the 
poorer  classes  j»|  Scotland  which  the  editor  has  seen, 
works  of  this  description  forma  great  part.  These 
societies  are  by  no  means  general,  and  it  is  not  sup- 
posed that  they  are  increasing  at  present. 

f See  Appendix,  No.  II.,  No;e  C. 


the  faculty  employed  to  convey  it.  Though 
some  attention  has  been  paid  to  the  eloquence 
of  the  senate  and  the  bar,  which  in  this,  as  in 
all  other  free  governments,  is  productive  of  so 
much  influence  to  the  few  who  excel  in  it,  yet 
little  regard  has  been  paid  to  the  humble  ex- 
ercise of  speech  in  private  conversation  ; an  art 
that  is  of  consequence  to  every  description  of 
persons  under  every  form  of  government,  and 
on  which  eloquence  of  every  kind  ought  per- 
haps to  be  founded. 

The  first  requisite  of  every  kind  of  elocution, 
a distinct  utterance,  is  the  offspring  of  much 
time  and  of  long  practice.  Children  are  always 
defective  in  clear  articulation,  and  so  are  young 
people,  though  in  a less  degree.  What  is  call- 
ed slurring  in  speech,  prevails  with  some  persons 
through  life,  especially  in  those  who  are  taci- 
ture.  Articulation  does  not  seem  to  reach  its 
utmost  degree  of  distinctness  in  men  before  the 
age  of  twenty,  or  upwards  ; in  women  it  reach- 
es this  point  somewhat  earlier.  Female  occu- 
pations require  much  use  of  speech,  because 
they  are  duties  in  detail.  Besides,  their  occu- 
pations being  generally  sedentary,  the  respira- 
tion is  left  at  liberty.  Their  nerves  being 
more  delicate,  their  sensibility  as  well  as  fancy 
is  more  lively ; the  natural  consequence  of  which 
is,  a more  frequent  utterance  of  thought,  a 
greater  fluency  of  speech,  and  a distinct  artic- 
ulation at  an  earlier  age.  But  in  men  who 
have  not  mingled  early  and  familiarly  with  the 
world,  though  rich  perhaps  in  knowledge,  and 
clear  in  apprehension,  it  is  often  painful  to  ob- 
serve the  difficulty  with  which  their  ideas  are 
communicated  by  speech,  through  the  want  of 
those  habits  that  connect  thoughts,  words,  and 
sounds  together;  which,  when  established,  seem 
as  if  they  had  arisen  spontaneously,  but  which, 
in  truth,  are  the  result  of  long  and  painful  prac- 
tice ; and  when  analyzed,  exhibit  the  phenom- 
ena of  most  curious  and  complicated  associa- 
tion. 

Societies  then,  such  as  we  have  been  describ- 
ing, while  they  may  be  said  to  put  each  mem- 
ber in  possession  of  the  knowledge  of  all  the 
rest,  improve  the  powers  of  utterance  ; and  by 
the  collision  of  opinion,  excite  the  faculties  of 
reason  and  reflection.  To  those  who  wish  to 
improve  their  minds  in  such  intervals  of  labor 
as  the  condition  of  a peasant  allows,  this  me- 
thod of  abbreviating  instruction  may,  under 
proper  regulations,  be  highly  useful.  To  the 
student,  whose  opinions,  springing  out  of  soli- 
tary observation  and  meditation,  are  seldom  in 
the  first  instance  correct,  and  which  have,  not- 
withstanding, while  confined  to  himself,  an  in- 
creasing tendency  to  assume  in  his  own  eye 
the  character  of  demonstrations,  an  association 
of  this  kind,  where  they  may  be  examined  as 
they  arise,  is  of  the  utmost  importance  ; since 
it  may  prevent  those  illusions  of  imagination, 
by  which,  genius  being  bewildered,  science  is 
often  debased,  and  error  propagated  through 
successive  generations.  And  to  men  w ho  have 
cultivated  letters,  or  general  science,  in  the 
course  of  their  education,  but  who  are  engaged 
in  the  active  occupations  of  life,  and  no  longer 
able  to  devote  to  study  or  to  books  the  time  re- 
quisite for  improving  or  preserving  their  ac- 
quisitions, associations  of  this  kind,  where  the 
mind  may  unbend  from  its  usual  cares  in  dis- 
cussions of  literature  or  science,  afford  the  most 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


181 


pleasing,  the  most  useful,  and  the  most  rational 
of  gratifications.* 

Whether  in  the  humble  societies  of  which  he 
was  a member,  Burns  acquired  much  direct  in- 
formal ion,  may  perhaps  be  questioned.  It  can- 
not however  be  doubted,  that  by  collision,  the 
faculties  of  his  mind  would  be  excited  ; that  by 
practice  his  habits  of  enunciation  would  be  es- 
tablished ; and  thus  we  have  some  explanation 
of  that  early  command  of  words  and  ot  expres- 
sion which  enabled  him  to  pour  forth  his  thoughts 
in  language  not  unworthy  of  his  genius,  and 
which,  of  all  his  endowments,  seemed,  on  his 
appearance  in  Edinburgh,  the  most  extraordi- 
nary.t  For  associations  of  a literary  nature, 
our  poet  acquired  a considerable  relish ; and 
happy  had  it  been  for  him,  after  he  emerged 
from  the  condition  of  a peasant,  if  fortune  had 
permitted  him  to  enjoy  them  in  the  degree  ot 
which  he  was  capable,  so  as  to  have  tonified 
his  principles  of  virtue  by  the  purification  of 
his  taste  ; and  given  to  the  energies  of  his  mind 
habits  of  exertion  that  might  have  excluded  other 
associations,  in  which  it  must  be  acknowledg- 
ed they  were  too  often  wasted,  as  well  as  de- 
based. 

The  whole  course  of  the  Ayr  is  fine  ; but  the 
banks  of  that  river,  as  it  bends  to  the  east- 
ward above  Mauchline.  are  singularly  beautiful, 
and  they  were  frequented,  as  may  be  imagined, 
by  our  poet,  in  his  solitary  walks.  Here  the 
muse  often  visited  him.  In  one  of  these  wan- 
derings, he  met  among  the  woods  a celebrated 
beauty  of  the  west  of  Scotland  : a lady,  of  whom 
it  is  said,  that  the  charms  of  her  person  corres- 
pond with  the  character  of  her  mind.  This  in- 
cident gave  rise,  as  might  be  expected,  to  a 
poem,  of  which  an  account  will  be  found  in  the 
following  letter,  in  which  he  enclosed  it  to  the 
object  ot  his  inspiration : 

* When  letters  and  philosophy  were  cultivated  in 
ancient  Greece,  the  press  had  not  multiplied  the  tab- 
lets of  learning  and  science,  and  necessity  produced 
the  habit  of  studying  as  it  were  in  common.  Poets 
were  found  reciting  theirown  verses  in  public  assem- 
blies: in  public  schools  only  philosophers  delivered 
their  speculations.  Tiie  taste  of  the  hearers,  the  in- 
genuity of  the  scholars,  weie  employed  in  appreciat- 
ing and  examining  the  works  of  fancy  and  of  spec- 
ulation submitted  ;o  their  consideration,  and  the  ir- 
revocable words  were  not  given  to  the  world  before 
the  composition,  as  well  as  the  sentiments,  were 
again  and  again  retouched  and  improved.  Death 
alone  put  the  last  seal  on  the  labors  of  genius.  Hence, 
perhaps,  may  be  in  part  explained  the  extraordinary 
art  and  skill  with  which  the  monuments  of  Grecian 
literature  that  remains  to  us,  appear  to  have  been 
constructed. 

t It  appears  that  our  poet  made  more  preparation 
than  iniL'h;  he  supposed,  for  the  discussion  of  the  so- 
ciety of  Parbolton.  There  were  found  some  detach- 
ed inemnran  a.  evdently  prepared  for  these  meet- 
ings and,  amongst  others,  ti  e heads  of  a speech  on 
the  question  mentioned  in  p.  29,  in  which,  as  might 
be  expected,  lie  lakes  the  imprudent  side  of  the  ques- 
tion. The  following  may  serve  as  a farther  speci- 
men of  the  questions  deb:  ted  in  the  society  at  Tar- 
bol:on: — Whether  do  in-  derive  more  happiness  from 
love  or  friendship  ? Whether  between  friends , who 
have  no  reason  to  doubt,  each  other's  friendship,  there 
should  be  any  te  serve  1 Whether  is  the  savage  man, 
or  the  peasant  of  a civilized  country,  in  ike  most  happy 
situation  ? Whether  <s  a young  man  of  the  lower 
ranks  of  life  likeliest  to  be  happy,  who  has  put  a good 
education,  and  his  mind  well  informed,  or  he  who  has 
just  the  education  and  information  of  those  around 
him  ! 


To  Miss 

Mossgiel,  18 tli  November,  1786. 

“ Madam, — Poets,  arc  such  outre  beings,  so 
much  the  children  of  wayward  fancy  and  capri- 
cious whim,  that  I believe  the  world  generally 
allows  them  a larger  latitude  in  the  laws  of  pro- 
priety, than  the  sober  sons  of  judgment  and  pru- 
dence. I mention  this  as  an  apology  for  the  lib- 
erties that  a nameless  stranger  has  taken  with 
you  in  the  enclosed  poem,  which  he  begs  leave 
to  present  you  with.  Whether  it  lias  poetical 
merit  any  way  worthy  of  the  theme,  I am  not 
the  proper  judge ; but  it  is  the  best  my  abili- 
ties could  produce ; and,  what  to  a good  heart 
will  perhaps  be  a superior  grace,  it  is  equally 
sincere  as  fervent. 

“ The  scenery  was  nearly  taken  from  real  life, 
though  I dare  say,  Madam,  you  do  not  recollect 
it,  as  I believe  you  scarcely  noticed  the  poetic 
reveur  as  he  wandered  by  you.  I had  roved 
out  as  chance  directed,  in  the  favorite  haunts 
of  my  muse  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  to  view 
nature  in  all  the  gayetv  of  the  vernal  year.  The 
evening  sun  was  flaming  over  the  distant  wes- 
tern hills  ; not  a breath  stirred  the  crimson  open- 
ing blossom,  or  the  verdent  spreading  leaf. — It 
was  a golden  moment  for  a poetic  heart.  I lis- 
tened to  the  feathered  warblers,  pouring  their 
harmony  on  every  hand,  with  a congenial  kind- 
red regard,  and  frequently  turned  out  of  my  path, 
lest  I should  disturb  their  little  songs,  or  fright- 
en them  to  another  station.  Surely,  said  I to 
myself,  he  must  be  a wretch  indeed,  who,  re- 
gardless of  your  harmonious  endeavors  to  please 
him,  can  eye  your  elusive  flights,  to  discover 
your  secret  recesses,  and  to  rob  you  of  all  the 
property  nature  gives  you, your  dearest  comforts, 
your  helpless  nesi lings.  Even  the  hoary  haw- 
thorn twig  that  shot  across  the  way,  what  heart 
at  such  a time  but  must  have  been  interested  in 
its  welfare,  and  wished  it  preserved  from  the 
rudely  browsing  cattle,  or  the  withering  eastern 
blast  ? Such  was  the  scene — and  such  the  hour, 
when,  in  a corner  of  my  prospect,  I spied  one  of 
the  fairest  pieces  of  Nature’s  workmanship  that 
ever  crowned  a poetic  landscape,  or  met  a poet’s 
eye  : those  visionary  bards  excepted  who  hold 
commerce  with  aerial  beings  ! Had  Calumny 
and  Villainy  taken  my  walk,  they  had  at  that 
moment  sworn  eternal  peace  with  such  an  ob- 
ject. 

“ What  an  hour  of  inspiration  for  a poet ! It 
would  have  raised  plain,  dull,  historic  prose  in- 
to metaphor  and  measure. 

“The  enclosed  song*  was  the  work  of  my  re- 
turn home  ; and  perhaps  it  but  poorly  answers 
what  might  have  been  expected  from  such  a 
scene. 

***** 

“ I have  the  honor  to  he,  Madam, 

Your  most  obedient, 

and  very  humble  servant, 

“ Robert  Burns.” 

Tn  the  manuscript  book  in  which  our  poet  has 
recounted  this  incident,  and  into  which  the  let- 
ter and  poem  are  copied,  he  complains  that  the 
lady  made  no  reply  to  his  effusions,  and  this  ap- 
pears to  have  wounded  his  self-love.  If  is  not 
however  difficult  to  find  ari  excuse  for  her  silence. 
Burns  was  at  that  lime  little  known  ; and  where 

* The  song  entitled  the  Lass  of  Ballochmyle. 


182 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


known  at  all,  noted  rather  for  the  wild  strength 
of  his  humor,  than  for  those  strains  of  tender- 
ness, in  which  he  afterwards  so  much  excelled. 
To  the  lady  herself  his  name  had  perhaps  never 
been  mentioned,  and  of  such  a poem  she  might 
not  consider  herself  a proper  judge.  Her  mod- 
esty might  prevent  her  from  perceiving  that  the 
muse  of  Tibullus  breathed  in  this  nameless  poet, 
and  that  her  beauty  was  awakening  strains  des- 
tined to  immortality,  on  the  bank  of  the  Ayr. 
It  may  be  conceived,  also,  that  supposing  the 
verse  duly  appreciated,  delicacy  might  find  it  dif- 
ficult to  express  its  acknowledgments.  Instead 
of  raising  himself  to  the  condition  of  the  object 
of  his  admiration,  he  presumed  to  reduce  her  to 
his  own,  and  to  strain  this  high-born  beauty  to 
his  daring  bosom.  It  is  true  Burns  might  have 
found  precedents  for  such  freedom  among  the 
poets  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  indeed  of  every 
country.  And  it  is  not  to  be  denied,  that  love- 
ly women  have  generally  submitted  to  this  sort 
of  profanation  with  patience,  and  even  with  good 
humor.  To  what  purpose  is  it  to  repine  at  a 
misfortune,  which  is  the  necessary  consequence 
of  their  own  charms,  or  to  remonstrate  with  a 
description  of  men  who  are  incapable  of  control  ? 

“ The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact/’ 

It  may  be  easily  presumed,  that  the  beautiful 
nymph  of  Ballochmyle,  whoever  she  may  have 
been,  did  not  reject  with  scorn  the  adorations 
of  our  poet,  though  she  received  them  with  si- 
lent modesty  and  dignified  reserve. 

The  sensibility  of  our  bard’s  temper,  and  the 
force  of  his  imagination,  exposed  him  in  a par- 
ticular manner  to  the  impressions  of  beauty  ; 
and  these  qualities,  united  to  his  impassioned 
eloquence,  gave  in  turn  a powerful  influence 
over  the  female  heart.  The  Banks  of  the  Ayr 
formed  the  scene  of  youthful  passions  of  a still 
tenderer  nature,  the  history  of  which  it  would 
be  improper  to  reveal,  were  it  even  in  our  pow- 
er ; and  the  traces  of  which  will  soon  be  discov- 
erable only  in  those  strains  of  nature  and  sensi- 
bility to  which  they  gave  birth.  The  song  en- 
titled Highland  Mary,  is  known  to  relate  to  one 
of  these  attachments.  “ It  was  written,”  says 
our  bard,  on  one  of  the  most  interesting  pas- 
sages of  my  youthful  days.”  The  object  of  this 
passion  died  early  in  life,  and  the  impression 
left  on  the  mind  of  Burns  seems  to  have  been 
deep  and  lasting.  Several  years  afterwards, 
when  he  was  removed  to  Nithsdale,  he  gave  vent 
to  the  sensibility  of  his  recollections,  in  that 
impassioned  poem,  which  is  addressed  To  Ma- 
ry in  Heaven  ! 

To  the  delineations  of  the  poet  by  himself,  by 
his  brother,  and  by  his  tutor,  these  additions  are 
necessary,  in  order  that  the  reader  may  see  his 
character  in  its  various  aspects,  and  may  have  an 
opportunity  of  forming  a just  notion  of  the  varie- 
ty, as  well  as  the  power  of  his  original  genius.* 

*The  history  of  the  poems  formerly  printed,  will 
be  found  in  the  Appendix  to  this  volume.  It  is  inser- 
ted in  the  words  of  Gilbert  Burns,  who,  in  a letter  ad- 
dressed to  the  Editor,  has  given  the  following  account 
of  the  friends  which  Robert’s  talents  procured  him 
before  he  left  Ayrshire,  or  attracted  the  notice  of  the 
world. 

‘‘The  farm  of  Mossgiel,  at  the  time  of  our  coming 
to  it,  (.Martinmas,  l?i-3.)  was  the  property  of  the  Earl 
of  Loudon,  but  was  held  in  tack  by  Mi . Gavin  Ham- 
ilton, writer  in  Mauchline,  from  whom  we  had  our 
bargain-,  who  had  thus  an  opportunity  of  knowing. 


We  have  dwelt  longer  on  the  early  part  of  his 
life,  because  it  is  the  least  known  ; and  because, 
as  has  already  been  mentioned,  this  part  of  his 
history  is  connected  with  some  views  of  the  con- 
dition and  manners  of  the  humblest  ranks  of  so- 
ciety, hitherto  littie  observed,  and  which  will 
perhaps  be  found  neither  useless  nor  uninter- 
esting. 

About  the  time  of  his  leaving  his  native  coun- 
ty, his  correspondence  commences  ; and  in  the 
series  of  letters  now  given  to  the  world,  the  chief 
incidents  of  the  remaining  portion  of  his  life  will 
be  found.  This  authentic,  though  melancholy 
record,  will  .■mpersede  in  future  the  necessity  of 
any  extended  narrative. 

Burns  set  out  for  Edinburgh  in  the  month  of 
November,  1786.  He  was  furnished  with  a let- 
ter of  introduction  to  Dr.  Blacklock,  from  the 
gentleman  to  whom  the  Doctor  had  addressed 
the  letter  which  is  represented  by  our  bard  as 
the  immediate  cause  of  his  visiting  the  Scottish 
metropolis.  He  was  acquainted  with  Mr.  Stew- 
ert,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  univer- 
sity ; and  had  been  entertained  by  that  gentle- 
man at  Catrine,  his  estate  in  Ayrshire.  He  had 
been  introduced  by  Mr.  Alexander  Da'.zel  to  the 
earl  of  Glencairn,  who  had  expressed  his  high 
approbation  of  his  poetical  talents.  He  had 
friends  therefore  who  could  introduce  him  into 
the  circles  of  literature  as  well  as  of  fashion,  and 
his  own  manners  and  appearance  exceeding  ev- 
ery expectation  that  could  have  been  formed  of 
them,  he  soon  became  an  object  of  general  cu- 
riosity and  admiration.  The  following  circum- 
stance contributed  to  this  in  a considerable  de- 
gree.— At  the  time  when  Burns  arrived  in  Ed- 
inburgh, the  periodical  paper,  entitled  The  Loun- 
ger, was  publishing,  every  Saturday  producing 
a successive  number.  His  poems  had  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  gentlemen  engaged  in  that  under- 
taking, and  the  ninety-seventh  number  of  those 
unequal,  though  frequently  beautiful  essays, 
is  devoted  to  An  Account,  of  Robert  Burns,  the 
Ayrshire  Ploughman,  with  extracts  from  his  Po- 
ems, written  by  the  excellent  pen  of  Mr.  Macken- 
zie.* The  Lounger  had  an  extensive  circulation 
among  persons  of  taste  and  literature, not  in  Scot- 
land only,  but  in  various  parts  of  England,  to 
whose  acquaintance  therefore  our  bard  was  im- 
mediately introduced.  The  paper  of  Mr.  Mac- 
kenzie was  calculated  to  introduce  him  advanta- 
geously. The  extracts  are  well  selected;  the  crit- 
icisms and  reflections  are  judicious  as  well  a3 
generous  ; and  in  style  and  sentiments  there  is 
that  happy  delicacy,  by  which  (he  writings  of  the 
author  are  so  eminently  distinguished.  The  ex- 
tracts from  Burns’  poems  in  the  ninety-seventh 
number  of  The  Lounger  were  copied  into  the 
London,  as  well  as  many  of  the  provincial  papers, 
and  the  fame  of  our  bard  spread  throughout  the  is- 
land. Of  the  manners,  character,  and  conduct  of 
Burns  at  this  period,  the  following  account  has 
been  given  by  Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of  Moral 
and  showing  a sincere  regard  for  my  brother,  before 
he  knew  that  he  was  a poet.  The  poet’s  estimation 
of  him,  and  the  strong  outlines  of  his  character,  may 
be  collected  from  the  dedication  to  this  gentleman. 
When  the  publication  was  begun,  Mr.  II.  entered  very 
warmly  into  his  interests,  and  promoted  the  subscrip- 
tion very  extensively.  Mr.  Robert  Aiken,  writer  in 

* This  paper  has  been  attributed,  but  improperly, 
to  1 ord  Craig,  one.  of  the  Scotiish  judges,  author  of 
the  very  interesting  account  of  Michael  Bruce,  in  the 
| 3Jth  number  of  The  Mirror. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS 


183 


Philosophy. in  the  university  of  Edinburgh,  in  a 
letter  to  the  editor,  which  he  is  particularly  hap- 
py to  have  obtained  permission  to  insert  in  these 
memoirs. 

“ The  first  time  I saw  Robert  Burns  was  on 
the  23rd  of  October,  1786,  when  he  dined  at  my 
house  in  Ayrshire,  together  with  our  common 
friend  Mr.  John  Mackenzie,  surgeon,  in  Mauch- 
line,  to  whom  I am  indebted  for  the  pleasure  of 
his  acquaintance.  I am  enabled  to  mention  the 
date  particularly,  by  some  verses  which  Burns 
wrote  after  he  returned  home,  and  in  which  the 
day  of  our  meeting  is  recorded. — My  excellent 
and  much  lamented  friend,  the  late  Basil,  Lord 
Daer,  happened  to  arrive  at  Catrine  the  same 
day,  and  by  the  kindness  and  frankness  of  his  I 
manners,  left  an  impression  on  the  mind  of  the 
poet  which  never  was  effaced.  The  verses  I al- 
lude to  are  among  the  most  imperfect  of  his  pie- 
ces ; but  a few  stanzas  may  perhaps  be  an  ob- 
ject of  curiosity  to  you,  both  on  account  of  the 
character  to  which  they  relate,  and  of  the  light 
which  they  throw  on  the  situation  and  feelings 
of  the  writer,  before  his  name  was  known  to  the 
public.* 

“I  cannot  postively  say,  at  this  distance  of 


time,  whether  at  the  period  of  our  first  acquain- 
tance, the  Kilmarnock  edition  of  his  poems  had 
l been  just  published,  or  was  yet  in  press.  I sus- 
pect that  the  latter  was  the  case,  as  I have  still 
| in  my  possession  copies  in  his  own  hand  writ* 
i ing,  of  some  of  his  favorite  performances  ; par- 
j ticularly  of  his  verses  ‘'on  turning  up  a Mouse 
with  his  plough  — “ on  the  Mountain  Daisy 
and  “the  Lament.1’  On  my  return  to  Edinburgh, 
I showed  the  volume,  and  mentioned  what  I 
knew  of  the  author’s  history  to  several  of  my 
friends  : and  among  others,  to  Mr.  Henry  Mac- 
kenzie, who  first  recommended  him  to  public 
notice  in  the  97th  number  of  The  Lounger. 

“ At  this  time  Burns’,  prospects  in  life  were 
so  extremely  gloomy,  that  he  had  seriously 
I formed  a plan  of  going  out  to  Jamaica  in  a very 
humble  situation,  not  however  without  lament- 
ing that  his  want  of  patronage  should  force  him 
to  think  of  a project  so  repugnant  to  his  feelings, 
when  his  ambition  aimed  at  no  higher  an  object 
than  the  station  of  an  exciseman  or  gauger  in 
his  own  Country. 

“ His  manners  were  then,  as  they  continued 
ever  afterward,  simple,  manly  and  independent ; 
strongly  expressive  of  conscious  genius  and 


Ayr,  is  a man  of  worth  and  tasie.  of  warm  affections,  I 
and  connected  with  a most  respectable  circle  of  j 
friends  and  relations.  It  is  to  this  gentlemen  The 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night  is  inscribed.  The  poems  of 
my  brother  which  I have  formerly  mentioned,  no  | 
sooner  came  into  his  hands,  than  they  were  quickly  [ 
known,  and  well  received  in  the  extensive  circle  of 
Mr.  Aiken’s  friends,  which  gave  them  a sort  of  cur- 
rency, necessary  in  this  wise  world,  even  for  the  good 
reception  of  things  valuable  in  themselves.  But  Mr. 
Aiken  not  alone  admired  the  poet ; as  soon  as  he  be- 
came acquainted  with  him,  he  showed  the  warmest 
regard  for  the  man,  and  did  every  thing  in  his  pow- 
er to  forward  his  interest  and  respectability.  The 
Epistle  to  a Young  Friend  was  addressed  to  this  gen- 
tleman’s son,  Mr.  A.  H.  Aiken,  now  of  Liverpool. 
He  was  the  oldest  of  a young  family,  who  were 
taught  to  receive  my  brother  with  respect,  as  a man 
of  genius,  and  their  father’s  friend. 

'•  The  Brigs  of  Ayr  is  inscribed  to  John  Ballentine, 
Esq.,  banker  in  Ayr.  one  of  those  gentlemen  to  whom  ! 
my  brother  was  introduced  by  Mr.  Aiken.  He  inter- 
ested himself  very  warmly  in  my  brother’s  concerns,  | 
and  constantly  showed  the  great'  st  friendship  and  at-  | 
tachment  to  him.  When  the  Kilmarnock  edition  was  j 
all  sold  off,  and  a considerable  demand  pointed  out  . 
the  propriety  of  publishing  a second  edition,  Mr.  Wil- 
son, who  had  printed  the  first,  was  asked  if  he  would  | 
print  the  second,  and  take  his  chance  of  being  paid  I 
irom  the  first  sale.  This  he  declined,  and  when  this  1 
came  to  Mr.  Ballentine’s  knowledge,  he  generously  j 
offered  to  accommodate  Robert  with  what  money  he  ! 
might  need  for  that  purpose;  but  advised  him  to  goto  j 
Edinburgh,  as  the  fittest  place  for  publishing.  When 
he  did  go  to  Edinburgh,  his  friends  advised  him  lo  pub-  I 
lish  again  by  subscription,  so  that  he  need  not  accept 
this  offer.  Air.  William  Parker,  merchant  in  Kiimar-  ■ 
nock  was  subscriber  for  thirty  -five  copies  of  ilie  Kil - j 
mamock  edition.  This  may  perhaps  appear  not  de- 
serving of  notice  here;  but  if  the  comparative  obscu- 
rity of  the  poet,  at  this  period,  be  taken  into  consid-  | 
eration.  it  appears  to  me  a greater  effort  of  generos- 
ity, than  many  things  which  appear  more  brilliant  in  I 
my  brother's  future  history. 

‘‘Mr.  Robert  Muir,  merchant  in  Kilmarnock,  was 
oneofthose  friends  Robert’s  poetry  had  procured  him. 
and  one  who  was  dear  to  his  heart.  This  gentleman 
had  no  very  great  fortune,  or  long  line  of  d gnified  j 
ancestry:  but  what  Rpi  ert  says  of  Captain  Matthew  | 
Henderson,  in;g!it  be  sdid  of  him  with  great  propriety,  j 
that  he  held  the  patent  of  his  honors  immediately  from  \ 
Almighty  God.  Nature  had  indeed  marked  him  a ! 
gentleman  in  the  most  legible  characters.  He  died  j 

*See  the  poem  entitled  “ Lines  on  an  interview  j 
with  Lord  Daer.”— Poems,  p.  58.  I 


I while  yet  a young  man,  soon  after  the  publication  of 
j my  brother’s  first  Edinburgh  edition.  Sir  William 
! Cunningham  of  Roberlland,  paid  a very  flattering  at- 
i tention.  and  showed  a good  d-  al  of  fr.endship  for  the 
j poet.  Before  his  going  to  Edinburgh,  as  well  as  af- 
; ter.  Robert  seemed  peculiarly  pleased  with  Professor 
Stewart’s  friendship  and  conversation. 

“ But  of  all  the  friendships  which  Robert  acquired 
in  Ayrshire  and  elsewhere,  none  seemed  more  agree- 
able to  him  than  that -of  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of  Dunlop  ; nor 
any  which  has  been  more  uniformly  and  constantly 
exerted  in  behalf  of  him  and  his  family,  of  which, were 
it  proper,  I could  give  many  instances.  Robert  was 
on  the  point  of  setting  out  for  Edinburgh  before  Mrs. 
Dunlop  had  heard  of  him.  About  the  time  of  my  broth- 
er’s publishing  in  Kilmarnock,  she  had  been  afflicted 
with  a long  and  severe  illness,  which  had  reduced 
her  mind  to  the  most  dist  ressing  state  of  depression. 
In  this  situation,  a copy, of  the  printed  poems  was  laid 
on  her  table  by  a friend  ; and  happening  to  open  on 
The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  she  read  t over  with 
the  greatest  pleasure  and  surprise  ; the  poet’s  de- 
scription of  the  simple  cottagers,  operating  like  the 
charm  ofa  powerful  exorcist,  expelling  the  demon  en- 
nui, and  restoring  her  to  tier  wonted  inward  harmony 
and  satisfaction.  Mrs.  Dunlop  sent  off  a person  ex- 
press to  Mossgiel,  distant  fifteen  or  sixteen  m Ies, 
with  a very  obliging  letter  to  my  brother,  desiring  him 
to  send  her  half  a dozen  copies  of  his  poems,  if  he  had 
them  to  spare,  and  begging  he  would  do  her  the  pleas- 
ure of  calling  at  Dunlop  House  as  soon  as  convenient. 
This  was  the  beginning  of  a correspondence  which 
ended  only  with  the  poet’s  life.  The  last  use  he  made 
of  his  pen  was  writing  a shprt  letter  to  this  lady  a 
few  days  before  h s death. 

“ Colonel  Fullarton,  who  afterwards  paid  a very 
particular  attention  to  the  poet,  was  not  in  the  coun- 
try at  the  time  of  his  first  commencing  author.  At 
this  distance  of  time,  and  in  the  hurry  of  a wet  day, 
snatched  from  laborious  occupations,  I may  have  for- 
got some  persons  who  ought  to  have  been  mentioned 
on  this  occasion : for  which,  if  it  come  to  my  knowl- 
edge, I shall  be  heartily  sorry.” 

The  friendship  of  Mrs.  Dunlop  was  of  particular 

value  to  Burns.  This  lady,  daughter  and  sole  heiress 
to  Sir  Thomas  Wallace  of  Craigie,and  lineal  descen- 
dant of  the  illustrious  Wallace,  the  first  of  Scottish 
warriors,  possesses  the  qualities  of  mind  suited  to  her 
high  lineage.  Preserving,  in  the  decline  of  life,  the 
generous  affections  of  youth  ; her  admiration  of  the 
poet  was  soon  accompanied  by  a sincere  friendship 
for  the  man;  which  pursued  him  in  after-life  through 
good  and  evil  report;  in  poverty,  in  sickness,  and  in 
sorrow  ; and  which  is  continued  to  his  infant  family, 
now  deprived  of  their  parent. 


181 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


worth ; but  without  anything  that  indicated 
forwardness,  arrogance,  or  vanity.  He  took  his 
share  in  conversation,  but  not  more  than  belong- 
ed to  him  ; and  listened  with  apparent  attention 
and  deference  on  subjects  where  his  want  of  ed- 
ucation deprived  him  of  the  means  of  informa- 
tion. If  there  had  been  little  more  gentleness 
and  accommodation  in  his  temper,  he  would,  I 
think,  have  been  still  more  interesting;  but  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  give  law  in  the  circle 
of  his  ordinary  acquaintance  ; and  his  dread  of 
anything  approaching  meaness  or  servility,  ren- 
dered his  manner  somewhat  decided  and  hard.  J 
Nothing,  perhaps,  was  more  remarkable  among 
his  various  attainments,  than  the  fluency,  and 
precision,  and  originality  of  his  language,  when 
lie  spoke  in  company  ; more  particularly  as  he 
aimed  at  purity  in  his  turn  of  expression,  and 
avoided  more  successfully  than  most  Scotchmen 
the  peculiarities  of  Scottish  phraseology. 

“He  came  to  Edinburgh  early  in  the  winter 
following,  and  remained  there  for  several  months. 
By  whose  advice  he  took  this  step,  I am  unable 
to  say.  Perhaps  it  was  suggested  only  by  his 
own  curiosity  to  see  a little  more  of  the  world; 
but,  I confess,  I dreaded  the  consequences  from  j 
the  first,  and  always  wished  that  his  pursuits 
and  habits  should  continue  the  same  as  in  the 
former  part  of  life ; with  the  addition  of,  what 
I considered  as  then  completely  within  his  reach, 
a good  farm  on  moderate  terms,  in  a part  of  the 
country  agreeable  to  his  taste. 

“The  attentions  he  received  during  his  stay 
in  town,  from  all  ranks  and  descriptions  of  per- 
sons, were  such  as  would  have  turned  any  head 
but  his  own.  I cannot  say  that  I could  perceive 
any  unfavorable  effect  which  they  left  on  his 
mind.  He  retained  the  same  simplicity  of  man- 
ners and  appearance  which  had  struck  me  so 
forcibly  when  I first  saw  him  in  the  country  ; 
nor  did  he  seem  to  feel  any  additional  self-im- 
portance from  the  number  and  rank  of  his  new 
acquaintance.  His  dress  Was  perfectly  suited 
to  his  station,  plain,  and  unpretending,  with  a 
sufficient  attention  to  neatness.  If  I recollect 
right,  he  always  wore  boots  ; and,  when  on 
more  than  usual  ceremony,  buck-skin  breeches. 

“ The  variety  of  his  engagements,  while  in 
Edinburgh,  prevented  me  from  seeing  him  so 
often  as  I could  have  wished.  In  the  course  of 
the  spring  he  called  on  me  once  or  twice,  at  my 
request,  early  in  the  morning,  and  walked  with 
me  to  Braid- Hills,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
town,  when  he  charmed  me  still  more  by  his 
private  conversation,  than  he  had  ever  done  in 
company.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  the 
beauties  of  nature  ; and  I recollect  once  he  told 
me,  when  I was  admiring  a distant  prospect  in 
one  of  our  morning  walks,  that  the  sight  of  so 
many  smoking  cottages  gave  a pleasure  to  his 
mind,  which  none  could  understand  who  had 
not  witnessed,  like  himself,  the  happiness  and 
the  worth  which  they  contained. 

“ In  his  political  principles  he  was  then  a 
Jacobite  ; which  was  perhaps  owing  partly  to 
this,  that  his  father  was  originally  from  the 
estate  of  Lord  Mareschall.  Indeed  he  did  not 
appear  to  have  thought  much  on  such  subjects, 
nor  very  consistently.  He  had  a very  strong 
sense  of  religion,  and  expressed  deep  regret  at 
the  levity  with  which  he  had  heard  it  treated 
occasionally  in  some  convivial  meetings  which 
he  frequented.  I speak  of  him  as  he  was  in 


the  winter  of  1786-7  ; for  afterwards  we  met 
but  seldom,  and  our  conversations  turned  chiefly 
on  his  literary  projects,  or  his  private  affairs. 

“ I do  not  recollect  whether  it  appears  or  not, 
from  any  of  your  letters  to  me,  that  you  had 
ever  seen  Burns.*  If  you  have,  it  is  superflu- 
ous for  me  to  add,  that  the  idea  which  his  con- 
versation conveyed  of  the  powers  of  his  mind, 
exceeded,  if  possible,  that  which  is  suggested 
by  his  writings.  Among  the  poets  whom  I 
have  happened  to  know,  1 have  been  struck  in 
more  than  one  instance,  with  the  unaccountable 
j disparity  between  their  general  talents,  and  the 
occasional  inspirations  of  their  more  favorable 
moments.  But  all  the  faculties  of  Burns1  mind 
were,  as  far  I could  judge,  equally  vigorous ; 
and  his  predilection  for  poetry  was  rather  the 
result  of  his  own  enthusiastic  and  impassioned 
temper,  than  of  a genius  exclusively  adapted  to 
that  species  of  composition.  From  his  con- 
versation, I should  have  pronounced  him  to  be 
fitted  to  excel  in  whatever  walk  of  ambition  he 
had  chosen  to  exert  his  abilities. 

“ Among  the  subjects  on  which  he  was  ac- 
customed to  dwell,  the  characters  of  the  indi- 
viduals with  whom  he  happened  to  meet,  was 
plainly  a favorite  one.  The  remarks  he  made 
on  them  were  always  shrewd  and  pointed,  though 
frequently  inclining  too  much  to  sarcasm.  His 
praise  of  those  he  loved  was  sometimes  indis- 
criminate and  extravagant ; but  this,  1 suspect, 
proceeded  rather  from  the  caprice  and  humor 
of  the  moment,  than  from  the  effects  of  attach- 
ment in  blinding  his  judgment.  His  wit  was 
ready,  and  always  impressed  with  the  marks  of 
a vigorous  understanding  ; but  to  my  taste,  not 
often  pleasing  or  happy.  His  attempts  at  epi- 
gram, in  his  printed  works,  are  the  only  per- 
formances, perhaps,  that  he  has  produced,  total- 
ly unworthy  of  his  genius. 

“ In  summer,  1787,  I passed  some  weeks  in 
Ayrshire,  and  saw  Burns  occasionally.  I think 
that  he  made  a pretty  long  excursion  that  season 
to  the  Highlands,  and  that  he  also  visited  what 
Beattie  calls  the  Arcadian  ground  of  Scotland, 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Tiviot  and  the  Tweed. 

“ I should  have  mentioned  before,  that  not- 
withstanding various  reports  I heard  during  the 
preceding  winter,  of  Burns’  predilection  for 
convivial,  and  not  very  select  society,  I should 
have  concluded  in  favor  of  his  habits  of  sobrie- 
ty, from  all  of  him  that  ever  fell  under  my  own 
observation.  He  told  me  indeed  himself,  that 
the  weakness  of  his  stomach  was  such  as  to  de- 
prive him  entirely  of  any  merit  in  his  temper- 
ance. I was  however  somewhat  alarmed  about 
the  effect  of  his  now  comparatively  sedentary 
and  luxurious  life,  when  he  confessed  to  me, 
the  first  night  he  spent  in  my  house  after  his 
winter’s  campaign  in  town,  that  he  had  been 
much  disturbed  when  in  bed,  by  a palpitation 
of  his  heart,  which,  he  said,  was  a complaint  to 
which  he  had  of  late  become  subject. 

“ In  the  course  of  the  same  season  I was  led 
by  curiosity  to  attend  for  an  hour  or  two  a Ma- 
son-Lodge in  Mauchline,  where  Burns  presided. 
He  had  occasion  to  make  some  short  unpre- 
meditated compliments  to  different  individuals 
from  whom  he  had  no  reason  to  expect  a visit, 
and  every  thing  he  said  was  happily  conceived, 
and  forcibly  as  well  as  fluently  expressed.  If 
I am  not  mistaken,  he  told  me  that  in  that  vil- 

* The  Editor  has  seen  and  conversed  with  Rums. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


185 


Iage,  before  going  to  Edinburgh,  he  had  belong- 
ed to  a small  club  of  such  of  the  inhabitants  as 
had  a taste  for  books,  when  they  used  to  con- 
verse and  debate  on  any  interesting  questions 
that  occurred  to  them  in  the  course  of  their 
reading.  His  manner  of  speaking  in  public  had 
evidently  the  marks  of  some  practice  in  ex- 
tempore elocution. 

“ 1 must  not  omit  to  mention,  what  I have 
always  considered  as  characteristical  in  a high 
degree  of  true  genius,  the  extreme  facility''  and 
good-nature  of  his  taste  in  judging  of  the  com- 
positions of  others,  where  there  was  any  real 
ground  for  praise.  I repeated  to  him  many  pas- 
sages of  English  poetry  with  which  he  was  un- 
acquainted, and  have  more  than  once  witnessed 
the  tears  of  admiration  and  rapture  with  which 
he  heard  them.  The  collection  of  songs  by 
Dr.  Aikin,  which  I first  put  into  his  hands,  he 
read  with  unmixed  delight,  notwithstanding  his 
former  efforts  in  that  very  difficult  species  of 
writing  ; and  I have  little  doubt  that  it  had  some 
effect  in  polishing  his  subsequent  compositions. 

•“  In  judging  of  prose,  I do  not  think  his  taste 
was  equally  sound.  I once  read  to  him  a pas- 
sage or  two  in  Franklin’s  Works,  which  I 
thought  very  happily  executed,  upon  the  model 
of  Addison ; but  he  did  not  appear  to  relish,  or 
to  perceive  the  beauty  which  they  derived  from 
their  exquisite  simplicity,  and  spoke  of  them 
with  indifference,  when  compared  with  the 
point,  and  antithesis,  and  quaintness  of  Junius. 
The  influence  of  this  taste  is  very  perceptible 
in  his  own  prose  compositions,  although  their 
great  and  various  excellences  render  some  of 
them  scarcely  less  objects  of  wonder  than  his 
poetical  performances.  The  late  Dr.  Robertson 
used  to  say,  that  considering  his  education,  the 
former  seemed  to  him  the  more  extraordinary 
of  the  two. 

“His  memory  was  uncommonly  retentive,  at 
least  for  poetry,  of  which  he  recited  to  me  fre- 
quently long  compositions  with  the  most  minute 
accuracy.  They  were  chiefly  ballads,  and  other 
pieces  in  our  Scottish  dialect ; great  part  of 
them  (he  told  me)  he  had  learned  in  his  child- 
hood from  his  mother,  who  delighted  in  such 
recitations,  and  whose  poetical  taste,  rude  as 
it  probably  was,  gave,  it  is  presumable,  the 
first  direction  to  her  son’s  genius. 

“ Of  the  more  polished  verses  which  accident- 
ally fell  into  his  hands  in  his  early  years,  he 
mentioned  particularly  the  recommendatory  po- 
ems, by  different  authors,  prefixed  to  Hervey's 
Meditations  ; a book  which  has  always  had  a 
very  wide  circulation  among  such  of  the  coun- 
try people  of  Scotland,  as  affect  to  unite  some 
decree  of  taste  with  their  religious  studies.  And 
these  poems  (although  they  are  certainly  below 
mediocrity)  he  continued  to  read  with  a degree 
of  rapture  beyond  expression.  He  took  notice 
of  this  fact  himself,  as  a proof  how  much  the 
taste  is  liable  to  be  influenced  by  accidental  cir- 
cumstances. 

“ His  father  appeared  to  me,  from  the  account 
he  gave  of  him,  to  have  been  a respectable  and 
worthy  character,  possessed  of  a mind  superior 
to  what  might  have  been  expected  from  his  sta- 
tion in  file.  He  ascribed  much  of  his  own  prin- 
ciples and  feelings  to  the  early  impressions  he 
had  received  from  his  instruction  and  example. 
I recollect  that  he  once  applied  to  him  (and  he 
added,  that  the  passage  was  a literal  statement 


of  fact)  the  two  last  lines  of  the  following  pas- 
sage in  the  Minstrel  : the  whole  ot  which  he 
repeated  with  greal  enthusiasm  : 

Shall  I be  left  forgotten  in  the  (hist, 

When  fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive  ? 

Shall  nature’s  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust. 

Bid  him.  though  doom’d  to  perish,  hope  to  live  ? 

Is  it  for  this  fair  virtue  oft  must  strive 
With  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain? 

No  ! l leaven’s  immortal  spring  shall  yet  arrive  ; 
And  man’s  majestic  beauty  bloom  again,  [reign. 

Bright  thro’  the  eternal  year  of  love’s  triumphant 

This  truth  subtime , his  simple  sire  had  taught : 

In  sooth,  ’ tivas  almost  all  the  shepherd  knew. 

“ With  respect  to  Burns’  early  education,  I 
cannot  say  any  thing  with  certainty.  He  always 
spoke  with  respect  and  gratitude  of  the  school- 
master who  had  taught  him  to  read  English  ; 
and  who,  finding  in  his  scholar  a more  than 
ordinary  ardor  for  knowledge,  had  been  at  pains 
to  instruct  him  in  the  grammatical  principles 
of  the  language.  He  began  the  study  of  Latin, 
and  dropt  it  before  he  had  finished  the  verbs. 
I have  sometimes  heard  him  quote  a lew  Latin 
words,  such  as  omnia  vincil  amor,  &c.,  but 
they  seemed  to  be  such  as  he  had  caught  from 
conversation,  and  which  he  repeated  by  rote. 
I think  he  had  a project,  after  he  came  to  Ed- 
inburgh, of  prosecuting  the  study  under  his  in- 
timate friend,  the  late  Mr.  Nicol,  one  of  the 
masters  of  the  grammar-school  here  ; but  I do 
not  know  that  he  ever  proceeded  so  far  as  to 
make  the  attempt. 

“ He  certainly  possessed  a smattering  of 
French;  and,  if  he  had  an  affectation  in  any 
thing,  it  was  in  introducing  occasionally  a word 
or  phrase  from  that  language.  It  is  possible 
that  his  knowledge  in  this  respect  might  be  more 
extensive  than  I supposed  it  to  be  ; but  this  you 
can  learn  from  his  more  intimate  acquaintance. 
It  would  be  worth  while  to  inquire,  whether 
he  was  able  to  read  the  French  authors  with 
such  facility  as  to  receive  from  them  any  im- 
provement to  his  taste.  For  my  own  part,  I 
doubt  it  much  ; nor  would  I believe  it,  but  on 
very  strong  and  pointed  evidence. 

" If  my  memory  does  not  fail  me,  he  wa3 
well  instructed  in  arithmetic,  and  knew  some- 
thing of  practical  geometry,  particularly  of  sur- 
veying.— All  his  other  attainments  were  entire- 
ly his  own. 

“ The  last  time  I saw  him  was  during  the 
winter,  1788-89,*  when  he  passed  an  evening 
with  me  at  Drumseugh,  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Edinburgh,  where  I was  then  living.  My 
friend,  Mr.  Alison,  was  the  only  other  person 
in  company.  I never  saw  him  more  agreeable 
or  interesting.  A present  which  Mr.  Alison 
sent  him  afterwards  of  his  Essays  on  Taste, 
drew  from  Burns  a letter  of  acknowledgment 
which  I remember  to  have  read  with  some  de- 
gree of  surprise  at  the  distinct  conception  he 
appeared  from  it  to  have  formed  of  the  general 
pr  inciples  of  the  doctrine  of  association.  When 
T saw  Mr.  Alison  in  Shropshire  last  autumn,  I 
forgot  to  inquire  if  the  letter  be  still  in  existence. 
If  it  is,  you  may  easily  procure  it,  by  means 
of  our  friend,  Mr.  Iloulbrooke.”t 

* * * * * 

* Or  ratber  17^9-90.  I cannot  speak  with  confidence 
with  respect  to  the  particular  year.  Some  of  my 
other  dates  may  possibly  require  correction,  as  I 
keep  no  journal  of  such  occurrences. 

This  letter  is  No.  CXIV. 


186 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


The  scene  that  opened  on  our  bard  in  Edin- 
burgh was  altogether  new,  and  in  a variety  of  . 
other  respects  highly  interesting,  especially  to 
one  of  his  disposition  of  mind.  To  use  an  ex- 
pression of  his  own,  he  found  himself,  “sud- 
denly translated  from  the  veriest  shades  of  life,” 
into  the  presence,  and,  indeed;  into  the  society 
of  a number  of  persons,  previously  known  to 
him  by  report  as  of  the  highest  distinction  in 
his  country,  and  whose  characters  it  was  nat- 
ural for  him  to  examine  with  no  common  curi- 
osity. 

From  the  men  of  letters,  in  general,  his  re- 
ception was  particularly  flattering.  The  late 
Dr.  Robertson,  Dr.  Blair,  Dr.  Gregory,  Mr. 
Stewart,  Mr.  Mackenzie,  and  Mr.  Frazer  Tyt- 
ler,  may  be  mentioned  in  the  list  of  those  who 
perceived  his  uncommon  talents,  who  acknowl- 
edged more  especially  his  powers  in  conversa- 
tion, and  who  interested  themselves  in  the  cul- 
tivation of  his  genius.  In  Edinburgh,  literary 
and  fashionable  society  are  a good  deal  mixed. 
Our  bard  was  an  acceptable  guest  in  the  gayest 
and  most  elevated  circles,  and  frequently  re- 
ceived from  female  beauty  and  elegance,  those 
attentions  above  all  others  most  grateful  to  him. 
At  the  table  of  Lord  Monboddo  he  was  a fre- 
quent guest;  and  while  he  enjoyed  the  society, 
and  partook  of  the  hospitalities  of  the  venera- 
ble judge,  he  experienced  the  kindness  and  con- 
descension of  his  lovely  and  accomplished  daugh- 
ter. The  singular  beauty  of  this  young  lady 
was  illuminated  by  that  happy  expression  of 
countenance  which  results  from  the  union  of 
cultivated  taste  and  superior  understanding,  with 
the  finest  affections  of  the  mind.  The  influence 
of  such  attractions  was  not  unfelt  by  our  poet. 
*l  There  has  not  been  any  thing  like  Miss 
Burnet,  (said  he  in  a letter  to  a friend,)  in  all 
the  combination  of  beauty,  grace,  and  goodness 
the  Creator  has  formed,  since  Milton’s  Eve,  on 
the  first  day  of  her  existence.”  In  his  Address 
to  Edinburgh , she  is  celebrated  in  a strain  of 
still  greater  elevation  : 

“Fair  Burnet  strikes  th’  adoring  eye, 

Heaven’s  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine, 

I see  the  Sire  of  Love  on  high, 

And  own  his  work  indeed  divine  !” 

This  lovely  woman  died  a few  years  after- 
wards in  ihe  flower  of  youth.  Our  bard  ex- 
pressed his  sensibility  on  that  occasion,  in  vers- 
es addressed  to  her  memory. 

Among  the  men  of  rank  and  fashion,  Burns 
was  particularly  distinguished  by  James,  Earl 
of  Glencairn.  On  the  motion  of  this  nobleman, 
the  Caledonian  Hunt,  an  association  of  the  no- 
bility and  gentry  of  Scotland,  extended  their 
patronage  to  our  bard,  and  admitted  him  to  their 
gay  orgies.  He  repaid  their  notice  by  a de- 
dication of  the  enlarged  and  improved  edition 
of  his  poems,  in  which  he  has  celebrated  their 
patriotism  and  independence  in  very  animated 
terms. 

“I  congratulate  my  country  that  the  blood 
of  her  ancient  heroes  runs  uncontaminated ; and 
that,  from  your  courage,  knowledge,  and  public 
spirit,  she  may  expect  protection,  wealth,  and 
liberty.  * * * * May  corruption  shrink  at  your 
kindling,  indignant  glance  ; and  may  tyranny  in 
the  Ruler,  and  licentiousness  in  the  People, 
equally  find  in  you  an  inexorable  foe  !”* 

* See  Dedication  prefixed  to  the  poems. 


It  is  to  be  presumed  that  these  generous  sen- 
timents, uttered  at  an  era  singularly  propitious 
to  independence  of  character  and  conduct,  were 
favorably  received  by  the  persons  to  whom  they 
were  addressed,  and  that  they  were  echoed  from 
every  bosom,  as  well  as  from  that  of  the  Earl 
of  Glencairn.  This  accomplished  nobleman,  a 
scholar,  a man  of  taste  and  sensibility,  died  soon 
afterwards.  Had  he  lived,  and  had  his  power 
equalled  his  wishes,  Scotland  might  still  have 
exulted  in  the  genius,  instead  of  lamenting  the 
i early  fate  of  her  favorite  bard. 

A taste  for  letters  is  not  always  conjoined 
with  habits  of  temperance  and  regularity  ; and 
Edinburgh,  at  the  period  of  which  we  speak, 
contained  perhaps  an  uncommon  proportion  of 
men  of  considerable  talents,  devoted  to  social 
excesses,  in  which  their  talents  were  wasted 
and  debased. 

Burns  entered  into  several  parties  of  this  de- 
scription. with  the  usual  vehemence  of  his  char- 
acter. His  generous  affections,  his  ardent  elo- 
quence, his  brilliant  and  daring  imagination, 
fitted  him  to  be  the  idol  of  sucii  associations  ; 
and  accustoming  himself  to  conversation  of  un- 
limited range,  and  to  festive  indulgences  that 
scorned  restraint,  he  gradually  lost  some  por- 
j ti<m  of  his  relish  for  the  more  pure,  but  iess 
i poignant  pleasures,  to  be  found  in  the  circles 
of  taste,  elegance,  and  literature.  The  sudden 
alteration  in  his  habits  of  life  operated  on  him 
physically  as  well  as  morally.  The  humble 
fare  of  an  Ayrshire  peasant  he  had  exchanged 
for  the  luxuries  of  the  Scottish  metropolis,  and 
the  effects  of  this  change  on  his  ardent  constitu- 
tion Could  not  be  inconsiderable.  But  what- 
ever influence  might  be  produced  on  his  con- 
duct, his  excellent  understanding  suffered  no 
corresponding  debasement.  He  estimated  his 
friends  and  associates  of  every  description  at 
their  proper  value,  and  appreciated  his  own  con- 
duct with  a precision  that  might  give  scope  to 
much  curious  and  melancholy  reflection.  He 
saw  his  danger,  and  at  times  formed  resolutions 
to  guard  against  it ; but  he  had  embarked  on 
the  tide  of  dissipation,  and  was  borne  along  its 
stream. 

Of  the  state  of  his  mind  at  this  time,  an  au- 
thentic, though  imperfect  document  remains,  in 
a book  which  he  procured  in  the  spring  of  1787, 
for  the  purpose,  as  he  himself  informs  us,  of  re- 
cording in  it  whatever  seemed  worthy  of  ob- 
servation. The  following  extracts  may  serve  as 
a specimen  : 

Edinburgh,  April  9,  1787. 

“ As  I have  seen  a good  deal  of  human  life  in 
Edinburgh,  a great  many  characters  which  are 
new  to  one  bred  up  in  the  shades  of  life  as  I have 
been,  I am  determined  to  take  down  my  remarks 
on  the  spot.  Gray  observes,  in  a letter  to  Mr. 
Falgrave,  that  \ half  a word  fixed  upon.,  or  near 
the  spot,  is  worth  a cart-load  of  recollection.’ 
1 don’t  know  how  it  is  with  the  world  in  general, 
but  with  me,  making  my  remarks  is  by  no 
means  a solitary  pleasure.  I want  some  one  to 
laugh  with  me,  some  one  to  be  grave  with  me, 
some  one  to  please  me,  and  help  my  discrimina- 
tion,  with  his  or  her  own  remark,  and  at  times, 
no  doubt,  to  admire  my  acuteness  and  penetra- 
tion. The  world  are  so  busied  with  selfish  pur- 
suits, ambition,  vanity,  interest,  or  pleasure, 
that  very  few  think  it  worth  while  to  make  any 
observation  on  what  passes  around  them,  except 


THE  LIFE  OF  B URNS. 


187 


where  that  observation  is  a sucker,  or  branch  of 
the  darling  plant  they  are  rearing  in  their  fancy'. 
Nor  am  1 sure,  notwithstanding  all  the  sentimen- 
tal flights  of  novel-writers,  and  the  sage  philos- 
ophy of  moralists,  whether  we  are  capable  of  so 
intimate  and  cordial  a coalition  of  friendship,  as 
that  one  man  may  pour  out  his  bosom,  his  ev- 
ery thought  and  floating  fancy,  his  very  inmost 
soul,  with  unreserved  confidence  to  another, 
without  the  hazard  of  losing  part  of  that  respect 
which  man  deserves  from  man,  or,  from  the 
unavoidable  imperfections  attending  human  na- 
ture, of  one  day  repenting  his  confidence. 

“ For  these  reasons  I am  determined  to  make 
these  pages  my  confidant.  I will  sketch  every 
character  that  any  way  strikes  me,  to  the  best 
of  my  power,  with  unshrinking  justice.  I will 
insert  anecdotes,  and  take  down  remarks  in  the 
old  law  phrase,  without  feud  or  favor. — Where 
I hit  on  any  thing  clever,  my  own  applause  will, 
in  some  measure,  feast  my  vanity  ; and  begging 
Patroclus’  and  Achates’  pardon,  I think  a lock 
and  key  a security,  at  least  equal  to  the  bosom 
of  any  friend  whatever. 

“ My  own  private  story  likewise,  niy  love  ad- 
ventures. my  rambles  ; the  frowns  and  smiles  of 
fortune  on  my  hardship;  my  poems  and  frag- 
ments. that  must  never  see  the  light,  shall  occa- 
sionally be  inserted. — In  short,  never  did  four 
shillings  purchase  so  much  friendship,  since  con- 
fidence went  first  to  market,  or  honesty  was  set 
up  to  sale. 

“To  these  seemingly  invidious,  but  too  just 
ideas  of  human  friendship,  I would  cheerfully 
make  one  exception — the  connection  between 
two  persons  of  different  sexes,  when  their  inter- 
ests are  united  and  absorbed  by  the  tie  of  love — 

When  thought  meets  thought,  ere  from  the  lips  it  part, 
And  each  warm  wish  springs  mutual  from  the  heart. 

There  confidence,  confidence  that  exalts  them 
the  more  in  one  another’s  opinion,  that  endears 
them  the  more  to  each  other's  heart,  unreserv- 
edly “ reigns  and  revels.”  But  this  is  not  my 
lot ; and,  in  my  situation,  if  I am  wise,  (which, 
by  the  by,  I have  no  great  chance  of  being,)  my 
fate  should  be  cast  with  the  Psalmist’s  sparrow, 
“ to  watch  alone  on  the  house-tops.” — Oh  ! the 
pity! 

******* 

“ There  are  few  of  the  sore  evils  under  the 
sun  give  me  more  uneasiness  and  chagrin  than 
the  comparison  how  a man  of  genius,  nay,  of 
avowed  worth,  is  received  every  where,  with  the 
reception  which  a mere  ordinary  character,  dec- 
orated with  the  trappings  and  futile  distinctions 
of  fortune  meets.  1 imagine  a man  of  abilities, 
his  breast  glowing  with  honest  pride,  conscious 
that  men  are  born  equal,  still  giving  honor  to 
whom  honor  is  due  ; he  meets  at  a great  man’s 
table,  a Squire  something,  or  a Sir  somebody  ; 
he  knows  the  noble  landlord,  at  heart,  gives  the 
bard,  or  whatever  he  is,  a share  of  his  good  wish- 
es, beyond,  perhaps,  any  one  at  table  ; yet  how 
it  would  mortify  him  to  see  a fellow,  whose  abil- 
ities would  scarcely  have  made  an  eight-penny 
tailor , and  whose  heart  is  not  worth  three  far- 
things, meet  with  attention  and  notice,  that  are 
withheld  from  the  son  of  genius  and  poverty  ? 

“ The  noble  Glencairn  has  wounded  me  to 
the  soul  here,  because  I dearly  esteem,  respect, 
and  love  him.  He  showed  so  much  attention, 
engrossing  attention  one  day,  to  the  only  block- 


head at  table  (the  whole  company  consisted  of 
his  lordship,  dunderpale,  and  myself,)  that  I was 
within  half  a point  of  throwing  down  my  gage 
of  contemptuous  defiance;  but  he  shook  my  hand 
and  looked  so  benevolently  good  at  parting.  God 
bless  him  ! though  1 should  never  see  him  more, 
I shall  love  him  until  my  dying  day  ! 1 am 

pleased  to  think  I am  so  capable  of  the  throes 
of  gratitude,  as  I am  miserably  deficient  in  some 
other  virtues. 

“ With  Dr.  Blair  I am  more  at  my  ease.  I 
never  respect  him  with  humble  veneration  ; but 
when  he  kindly  interests  himself  in  iny  welfare, 
or  still  more,  when  he  descends  from  his  pinna- 
cle, and  meets  me  on  equal  ground  in  conver- 
sation, my  heart  overflows  with  what  is  called 
liking.  When  he  neglects  me  lor  the  mere  car- 
cass of  greatness,  or  when  his  eye  measures  the 
difference  of  our  points  of  elevation,  I say  to  my- 
self, with  scarcely  any  emotion,  what  do  I care 
for  him  or  his  pomp  either  ?’’ 

******* 

The  intentions  of  the  poet  in  procuring  this 
J book,  so  fully  described  by  himself,  were  very 
imperfectly  executed.  He  has  inserted  few  or 
no  incidents,  but  several  observations  and  re- 
flections, of  which  the  greater  part  that  are  pro- 
per for  the  public  eye,  will  be  found  interwoven 
in  his  letters.  The  most  curious  particulars  in 
the  book  are  the  delienations  of  the  characters 
he  met  with.  These  are  not  numerous  ; but 
| they  are  chiefly  of  persons  of  distinction  in  the 
republic  of  letters,  and  nothing  but  the  delicacy 
and  respect  due  to  living  characters  prevents  ua 
from  committing  them  to  the  press.  Though  it 
appears  that  in  his  conversation  he  was  some- 
times disposed  to  sarcastic  remarks  on  the  men 
with  whom  he  lived,  nothing  of  this  kind  is  dis- 
coverable in  these  more  deliberate  efforts  of  his 
understanding,  which,  while  they  exhibit  great 
clearness  of  discrimination,  manilest  also  the 
wish,  as  well  as  power,  to  bestow  high  and  gen- 
erous praise. 

As  a specimen  of  these  delineations,  we  give?, 
in  this  edition,  the  character  of  Dr.  Blair,  who 
has  now  paid  the  debt  of  nature,  in  the  full  con- 
fidence that  this  freedom  will  not  be  found  in- 
consistent with  the  respect  and  veneration  due 
to  that  excellent  man,  the  last  star  in  the  litera- 
ry constellation,  by  which  tfi^  metropolis  of  Scot- 
land was,  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  present  reign, 
so  beautifully  illuminated. 

“ It  is  not  easy  forming  an  exact  judgment  of 
any  one;  but.  in  my  opinion,  Dr.  Blair  is  mere- 
ly an  astonishing  proof  of  what  industry  and  ap- 
plication can  do.  Natural  parts  like  his  are  fre- 
: quently  to  be  met  with  ; his  vanity  is  proverbi- 
i ally  known  among  his  acquaintance  ; but  he  is 
i justly  at  the  head  of  what  may  be  called  fine 
; writing;  and  a critic  of  the  first,  the  very  first 
j rank  in  prose  ; even  in  poetry,  a bard  of  Nature’s 
; making  can  only  fake  the  pas  of  him.  He  has  a 
j heart,  not  of  the  finest  water,  but  far  from  being 
! an  ordinary  one.  In  short,  he  is  truly  a worthy, 
j and  most  respectable  character.” 


By  the  new  edition  of  his  poems,  Burns  ac- 
quired a sum  of  money  that  enabled  him  not  on- 
ly to  partake  of  the  pleasures  of  Edinburgh,  but 
to  gratify  a desire  he  had  long  entertained,  of 


188 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


visiting  those  parts  of  his  native  country,  most 
attractive  by  their  beauty  or  their  grandeur  ; a 
desire  which  the  return  of  summer  naturally  re- 
vived. The  scenery  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
and  of  its  tributary  streams,  strongly  interested 
his  fancy  ; and  accordingly  he  left  Edinburgh 
on  the  6th  of  May,  1787,  on  a tour  through  a 
country  so  much  celebrated  in  the  rural  songs 
of  Scotland.  He  traveled  on  horseback,  and 
was  accompanied,  during  some  part  of  his  jour- 
ney, by  Mr.  Ainslie,  now  writer  to  the  signet,  a 
gentleman  who  enjoyed  much  of  his  friendship 
and  of  his  confidence.  * Of  this  tour  a journal 
remains,  which  however  contains  only  occasion- 
al remarks  on  the  scenery,  and  which  is  chiefly 
occupied  with  an  account  of  the  author’s  different 
stages,  and  with  his  observations  on  the  various 
characters  to  whom  he  was  introduced.  In  the 
course  of  this  tour  he  visited  Mr.  Ainslie  of  Ber- 
ry well.  the  father  of  his  companion  ; Mr.  Bry- 
done,  the  celebrated  traveler,  to  whom  he  car- 
ried a letter  of  introduction  from  Mr.  Macken- 
zie ; the  Rev.  Dr.  Sommerville  of  Jedburgh, 
the  historian  ; Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scott  of  Wauchope  ; 
Dr.  Elliot,  a physician,  retired  to  a romantic  spot 
on  the  banks  of  the  Roole  ; Sir  Alexander  Don; 
Sir  James  Hall,  of  Dunglass  ; and  a great  varie- 
ty of  other  respectable  characters.  Every  where 
the  fame  of  the  poet  had  spread  before  him,  and 
every  where  he  received  the  most  hospitable  and 
flattering  attentions.  At  Jedburgh  he  continued 
several  days,  and  was  honored  by  the  magistrates 
with  the  freedom  of  their  borough.  The  follow- 
ing may  serve  as  a specimen  of  this  tour,  which 
the  perpetual  reference  to  living  characters  pre- 
vents our  giving  at  large. 

'‘Saturday,  May  6th.  Left  Edinburgh.  Lam- 
mer-muir-hills,  miserably  dreary  in  general,  but 
at  times  very  picturesque. 

“ Lanson-edge,  a glorious  view  of  the  Merse. 
Reach  Berrywell  * * * The  family-meeting 
with  my  compagnon  de  voyage , very  charming; 
particularly  the  sister.  * * 

“ Sunday . Went  to  church  at  Dunse.  Heard 
Dr.  Bowmaker.  * * * 

“ Monday.  Coldstream  — glorious  river 
Tweed — clear  and  majestic — fine  bridge — dine 
at  Coldstream  with  Mr.  Ainslie  and  Mr.  Fore- 
man. Beat  Mr.  Foreman  in  a dispute  about 
Voltaire.  Drink  tea  at  Lenel-House  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Brydone.  * * * Reception  extreme- 
ly flattering.  Sleep  at  Coldstream. 

“ Tuesday.  Breakfast  at  Kelso — charming 
situation  of  the  town — fine  bridge  over  the 
Tweed.  Enchanting  views  and  prospects  on 
both  sides  of  the  river,  especially  on  the  Scotch 
side.  * * Visit  Roxburgh  Palace — fine  situa- 
tion of  it.  Ruins  of  Roxburgh  Castle — a holly- 
bush  growing  where  James  II.  was  accidental- 
ly killed  by  the  bursting  of  a cannon.  A small 
old  religious  ruin,  and  a fine  old  garden  planted 
by  the  religious,  rooted  out  and  destroyed  by  a 
Hottentot,  a mail  re  d hotel  of  the  Duke’s — cli- 
mate and  soil  of  Berwickshire  and  even  Rox- 
burgshire,  superior  to  Ayrshire — bad  roads — 
turnip  and  sheep  husbandry,  their  great  im- 
provements. * * * Low  markets,  consequently 
low  lands — magnificence  of  farmers  and  farm- 
houses. Come  up  the  Tiviot,  and  up  the  Jed 
to  Jedburgh  to  lie,  and  so  wish  myself  good- 
night. 

“ Wednesday.  Breakfast,  with  Mr.  Fair. 

* * * Charming  romantic  situation  of  Jedburgh, 


with  gardens  and  orchards,  intermingled  among 
the  houses  and  the  ruins  of  a once  magnificent 
cathedral.  All  the  towns  here  have  the  appear- 
ance of  old  rude  grandeur,  but  extremely  idle. 
— Jed,  a fine  romantic  little  river.  Dined  with 
Capt.  Rutherford,  * * * return  to  Jedburgh. 
Walk  up  the  Jed  with  some  ladies  to  be  shown 
Love-lane,  and  Blackburn,  two  fairy-scenes. 
Introduced  to  Mr.  Potts,  writer,  and  to  Mr. 
Sommerville,  the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  a 
man,  and  a gentleman,  but  sadly  addicted  to 
punning. 

* * * * * 

11  Jedburgh,  Saturday.  Was  presented  by 
the  magistrates  with  the  freedom  of  the  town. 

“ Took  farewell  of  Jedburgh  with  some  mel- 
ancholy sensations. 

“ Monday , May  14 th,  Kelso.  Dine  with  the 
farmer’s  club — all  gentlemen  talking  of  high 
matters — each  of  them  keeps  a hunter  from  307. 
to  507.  value,  and  attends  the  fox-hunting  club 
in  the  country.  Go  out  with  Mr.  Ker,  one  of 
the  club,  and  a friend  of  Mr.  Ainslie’s,  to  sleep. 
In  his  mind  and  manners,  Mr.  Ker  is  astonish- 
ingly like  my  dear  old  friend,  Robert  Muir — 
every  thing  in  his  house  elegant.  He  offers  to 
accompany  me  in  my  English  tour. 

“ Tuesday.  Dine  with  Sir  Alexander  Don: 
a very  wet  day.  * * * Sleep  at  Mr.  Ker’s 
again,  and  set  out  next  day  for  Melross — visit 
Dryburgh,  a fine  old  ruined  abbey,  by  the  way. 
Cross  the  Leader,  and  come  up  the  Tweed  to 
Melross.  Dine  there,  and  visit  that  far-famed 
glorious  ruin. — Come  to  Selkirk  up  the  banks 
of  Ettrick.  The  whole  country  hereabouts, 
both  on  Tweed  and  Ettrick,  remarkably  stony.1* 

# # # # 

Plaving  spent  three  weeks  in  exploring  this 
interesting  scenery,  Burns  crossed  over  into 
Northumberland.  Mr.  Ker,  and  Mr.  Hood, 
two  gentlemen  with  whom  he  had  become  ac- 
quainted in  the  course  of  his  tour,  accompanied 
him.  He  visited  Alnwick-Castle,  the  princely 
seat  of  the  Duke  of  Northumberland  ; the  her- 
mitage and  old  castle  of  Warksworth  ; Morpeth, 
and  Newcastle. — In  this  last  town  he  spent  two 
days,  and  then  proceeded  to  the  south-west  by 
Hexham  and  Wardrue,  to  Carlisle. — After 
spending  a day  at  Carlisle  with  his  friend,  Mr. 
Mitchell,  he  returned  into  Scotland,  and  at 
Annan  his  journal  terminates  abruptly. 

Of  the  various  persons  with  whom  he  became 
acquainted  in  the  course  of  this  journey,  he  has, 
in  general,  given  some  account ; and  almost  al- 
ways a favorable  one.  That  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tweed  and  of  the  Tiviot,  our  bard  should 
find  nymphs  that  were  beautiful,  is  what  might 
be  confidently  presumed.  Two  of  these  are 
particularly  described  in  his  journal.  But  it 
does  not  appear  that  the  scenery,  or  its  inhabit- 
ants, produced  any  effort  of  his  muse,  as  was 
to  have  been  wished  and  expected.  From 
Annan,  Burns  proceeded  to  Dumfries,  and 
thence  through  Sanquhar,  to  Mossgiel,  near 
Mauchline,  in  Ayrshire,  where  he  arrived  about 
the  8th  of  June,  1787.  after  a long  absence  of 
six  busy  and  eventful  months.  It  will  easily 
be  conceived  with  what  pleasure  and  pride  he 
was  received  by  his  mother,  his  brothers,  and 
sisters.  He  had  left  them  poor,  and  compar- 
atively friendless  : he  returned  to  them  high  in 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS.  189 


Eublic  estimation,  and  easy  in  his  circumstances. 

[e  returned  to  them  unchanged  in  his  ardent 
affections,  and  ready  to  share  with  them  to  the 
uttermost  farthing,  the  pittance  that  fortune  had 
bestowed. 

Having  remained  with  them  a few  days,  he 
proceeded  again  to  Edinburgh,  and  immediate- 
ly set  out  on  a journey  to  the  Highlands.  Of 
this  tour  no  particulars  have  been  found  among 
his  manuscripts.  A letter  to  his  friend,  Mr.  j 
Ainslie,  dated  Arrachas,  near  Crochairbas , by  j 
Lochleary , June  28,  1787,  commences  as  fol- 
lows : 

“ I write  you  this  on  my  tour  through  a coun-  | 
try  where  savage  streams  tumble  over  savage 
mountains,  thinly  overspread  with  savage  flocks, 
which  starvingly  support  as  savage  inhabitants. 
My  last  stage  was  Inverary — to-morrow  night’s 
stage,  Dumbarton.  I ought  sooner  to  have  an- 
swered your  kind  letter,  but  you  know  I am  a 
man  of  many  sins.” 

Part  of  a letter  from  our  bard  to  a friend, 
giving  some  account  of  his  journey,  has  been 
communicated  to  the  Editor  since  the  publi- 
cation of  the  last  edition.  The  reader  will  be 
amused  with  the  following  extract. 

“ On  our  return,  at  a Highland  gentleman’s 
hospitable  mansion,  we  fell  in  with  a merry 
party,  and  danced  till  the  ladies  left  us,  at  three 
in  the  morning.  Our  dancing  was  none  of  the 
French  or  English  insipid  formal  movements; 
the  ladies  sung  Scotch  songs  like  angels,  at  in- 
tervals ; then  we  flew  at  Bab  at  the  Brewster, 
Tullochgorum,  Loch  Erroch  Side,*  &c.,  like 
midges  sporting  in  the  mottie  sun,  or  craws  prog- 
nosticating a storm  in  a hairst  day. — When  the 
dear  lasses  left  us  we  ranged  round  the  bowl 
till  the  good-fellow  hour  of  six : except  a few 
minutes  that  we  went  out  to  pay  our  devotions 
to  the  glorious  lamp  of  day  peering  over  the 
towering  top  of  Benlomond.  We  all  kneeled; 
our  worthy  landlord’s  son  held  the  bowl ; each 
man  a full  glass  in  hi3  hand;  and  I.  as  priest, 
repeated  some  rhyming  nonsense,  like  Thom- 
as a-Rhymer’s  prophecies,  I suppose. — After  a 
small  refreshment  of  the  gifts  of  Somnus,  we 
proceeded  to  spend  the  day  on  Lochlomond, 
and  reached  Dumbarton  in  the  evening.  We 
dined  at  another  good-fellow’s  house,  and  con- 
sequently pushed  the  bottle  ; when  we  went 
out  to  mount  our  horses  we  found  ourselves 
“ No  vera  fou,  butgaylie  yet.”  My  two  friends 
and  I rode  soberly  down  the  Loch-side,  till  by 
came  a Highlandman  at  the  gallop,  on  a toler- 
ably good  horse,  but  which  had  never  known 
the  ornaments  of  iron  or  leather.  We  scorned 
to  be  out-galloped  by  a Highlandman,  so  off 
we  started,  whip  and  spur.  My  companions, 
though  seemingly  gaily  mounted,  fell  sadly 
astern  ; but  my  old  mare,  Jenny  Geddes,  one 
of  the  Rosinanle  family,  she  strained  past  the 
Highlandman  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  with 
the  hair-halter  : just  as  I was  passing  him  Don- 
ald wheeled  hi3  horse,  as  if  to  cross  before  me 
to  mar  my  progress,  when  down  came  his  horse, 
and  threw  his  rider’s  breekless  a — e in  a dipt 
hedge  ; and  down  came  Jenny  Geddes  over  all, 
and  my  hardship  between  her  and  the  High- 
landman’s  horse.  Jenny  Geddes  trode  over  me 
with  such  cautious  reverence,  that  matters  were 
rot  so  bad  as  might  well  have  been  expected  ; 
so  I came  off  with  a few  cuts  and  bruises,  and 
* Scotch  tunes. 


a thorough  resolution  to  be  a pattern  of  sobriety 
for  the  future. 

“ 1 have  yet  fixed  on  nothing  with  respect  to 
the  serious  business  ot  1 ite.  1 am,  just  as  usual, 
a rhyming,  mason-making,  raking,  aimless,  idle 
fellow.  However,  I shall  somewhere  have  a 
farm  soon.  I was  going  to  say,  a wife  too : but 
that  must  never  be  my  blessed  lot.  I am  but 
a younger  son  of  the  house  of  Parnassus,  and 
like  other  younger  sons  of  great  families,  I may 
intrigue,  if  I choose  to  run  all  risks,  but  must 
not  marry. 

“ I am  afraid  I have  almost  ruined  one  source, 
the  principal  one  indeed,  of  my  former  happi- 
ness ; that  eternal  propensity  I always  had  to 
fall  in  love.  My  heart  no  more  glows  with 
feverish  rapture.  I have  no  paradisical  evening 
interviews  stolen  from  the  restless  cares  and 
prying  inhabitants  of  this  weary  world.  I have 
only  * * *.  This  last  is  one  of  your  distant  ac- 
quaintances, has  a fine  figure,  and  elegant  man- 
ners ; and  in  the  train  of  some  great  folks  whom 
you  know,  has  seen  the  politest  quarters  in  Eu- 
rope. I do  like  her  a good  deal;  but  what 
piques  me  is  her  conduct  at  the  commencement 
of  our  acquaintance.  I frequently  visited  her 

when  I was  in , and  after  passing  regularly 

the  intermediate  degrees  between  the  distant 
formal  bow  and  the  familiar  grasp  round  the 
waist,  I ventured  in  my  careless  way  to  talk 
of  friendship  in  rather  ambiguous  terms  ; and 

after  her  return  to , I wrote  to  her  in  the 

same  style.  Miss,  construing  my  words  farther 
I suppose  than  even  1 intended,  flew  off  in  a 
tangent  of  female  dignity  and  reserve,  like  a 
mountain-lark  in  an  April  morning  : and  wrote 
me  an  answer  which  measured  me  out  very 
completely  what  an  immense  way  I had  to  trav- 
el before  I could  reach  the  climate  of  her  favor. 
But  I am  an  old  hawk  at  the  sport;  and  wrote 
her  such  a cool,  deliberate,  prudent  reply,  as 
brought  my  bird  from  her  aerial  towerings,  pop 
down  at  my  foot  like  corporal  Trim’s  hat. 

“ As  for  the  rest  of  my  acts,  and  my  wars, 
and  all  my  wise  sayings,  why  my  mare  was 
called  Jenny  Geddes;  they  shall  be  recorded 
in  a few  weeks  hence,  at  Linlithgow,  in  the 
chronicles  of  your  memory,  by 

Robert  Burns.” 


From  this  journey  Burns  returned  to  his 
friends  in  Ayrshire,  with  whom  he  spent  the 
month  of  July,  renewing  his  friendships,  and 
extending  his  acquaintance  throughout  the  coun- 
try, where  he  was  now  very  generally  known 
and  admired.  In  August  he  again  visited  Ed- 
inburgh, whence  he  undertook  another  jour- 
ney, towards  the  middle  of  this  month,  in  com- 
pany with  Mr.  M.  Adair,  now  Dr.  Adair,  of 
Harrowgate,  of  which  this  gentleman  has  favor- 
ed us  with  the  following  account. 

“ Burns  and  I left  Edinburgh  together  in 
August,  1787.  We  rode  by  Linlithgow  and 
Carron,  to  Stirling.  We  visited  the  iron- works 
at  Carron,  with  which  the  poet  was  forcibly 
struck.  The  resemblance  between  that  place, 
and  its  inhabitants,  to  the  cave  of  Cyclops, 
which  must  have  occurred  to  every  classical 
reader,  presented  itself  to  Burns.  At  Stirling 
the  prospects  from  the  castle  strongly  interested 
him  ; in  a former  visit  to  which,  his  national 
feelings  had  been  powerfully  excited  by  the 


190 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ruinous  and  roofless  state  of  the  hall  in  which 
the  Scottish  parliaments  had  been  held,  His 
indignation  had  vented  itself  in  some  impru- 
dent, but  not  unpoetical  lines,  which  had  given 
much  oflence,  and  which  he  look  this  oppor- 
tunity of  erasing,  by  breaking  the  pane  of  the 
window  at  the  inn  on  which  they  were  written, 

“At  Stirling  we  met  with  a company  of 
travelers  from  Edinburgh,  among  whom  was  a 
character  in  many  respects  congenial  with  that 
of  Burns.  This  was  Nicol,  one  of  the  teachers 
of  the  High  Grammar-School  at  Edinburgh — 
the  same  wit  and  power  of  conversation ; the 
same  fondness  for  convivial  society,  and  thought- 
lessness of  to-morrow,  characterized  both.  Jaco- 
bitical  principles  in  politics  were  common  to 
both  of  them  ; and  these  have  been  suspected, 
since  the  revolution  of  France,  to  have  given 
place  in  each,  to  opinions  apparently  opposite. 
] regret  that  I have  preserved  no  memorabilia 
of  their  conversation,  either  on  this  or  on  other 
occasions,  when  I happened  to  meet  them  to- 
gether. Many  songs  were  sung,  which  I men- 
tion for  the  sake  of  observing,  that  when  Burns 
was  called  on  in  his  turn,  he  was  accustomed,  in- 
stead of  singing,  to  recite  one  or  other  of  his 
own  shorter  poems,  with  a tone  and  emphasis, 
which,  though  not  correct  or  harmonious,  were 
impressive  and  pathetic.  This  he  did  on  the 
present  occasion. 

“From  Stirling  we  went  next  morning 
through  the  romantic  and  fertile  vale  of  Devon 
to  Harvieston  in  Clackmannanshire,  then  in- 
habited by  Mrs.  Hamilton,  with  the  younger 
part  of  whose  family  Burns  had  been  previously 
acquainted.  He  introduced  me  to  the  family, 
and  there  was  formed  my  first  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  Hamilton’s  eldest  daughter,  to  whom 
I have  been  married  for  nine  years.  Thus  was 
I indebted  to  Burns  for  a connection  from  which 
I have  derived,  and  expect  further  to  derive 
much  happiness. 

“ During  a residence  of  about  ten  days  at 
Harvieston,  we  made  excursions  to  visit  vari- 
ous parts  of  the  surrounding  scenery,  inferior  to 
none  in  Scotland,  in  beauty,  sublimity,  and  ro- 
mantic interest ; particularly  Castle  Campbell, 
the  ancient  seat  of  the  family  of  Argyle  ; and 
the  famous  Cataract  of  the  Devon,  called  the 
Caldron  Linn  ; and  the  Rumbling  Bridge,  a 
singel  broad  arch,  thrown  by  the  Devil,  if  tra- 
dition is  to  be  believed,  across  the  river,  at 
about  the  height  of  a hundred  feet  above  its  bed. 
I am  surprised  that  none  of  these  scenes  should 
have  called  forth  an  exertion  of  Burns’  muse. 
But  I doubt  if  he  had  much  taste  for  the  pic- 
turesque. I well  remember,  that  the  ladies  at 
Harvieston,  who  accompanied  us  on  this  jaunt, 
expressed  their  disappointment  at  his  not  ex- 
pressing in  more  glowing  and  fervid  language, 
his  impressions  of  the  Caldron  Linn  scene,  cer- 
tainly highly  sublime,  and  somewhat  horrible. 

“A  visit  to  Mrs.  Bruce,  of  Clackmannan,  a 
lady  above  ninety,  the  lineal  descendant  of  that 
race  which  gave  the  Scottish  throne  its  bright- 
est ornament,  interested  his  feelings  more  pow- 
erfully. This  venerable  dame,  with  character- 
istical  dignity,  informed  me,  on  my  observing 
that  I believed  she  was  descended  from  the  fam- 
ily of  Robert  Bruce,  that  Robert  Bruce  was 
sprung  from  her  family.  Though  almost  de- 
prived of  speech  by  a paralytic  affection,  she 
preserved  her  hospitality  and  urbanity.  She 


was  in  possession  of  the  hero’s  helmet  and  two- 
handed  sword,  with  which  she  conferred  on 
Burns  and  myself  the  honor  of  knighthood,  re- 
marking, that  she  had  a better  right  to  confer 
that  title  than  some  people.  * * You  will  of 

course  conclude  that  the  old  lady’s  political  ten- 
ets were  as  Jacobitical  as  the  poet’s,  a conform- 
ity which  contributed  not  a little  to  the  cordial- 
ity of  our  reception  and  entertainment. — She 
gave  us  as  her  first  toast  after  dinner,  Awa ’ Un- 
cos., or  Away  with  the  Strangers. — Who  these 
strangers  were,  you  will  readily  understand. 
Mrs.  A.  corrects  me  by  saying  it  should  be  Hooi, 
or  Hooi,  uncos,  a sound  used  by  shepherds  to 
direct  their  dogs  to  drive  away  the  sheep. 

“ We  returned  to  Edinburgh  by  Kinross  (on 
the  shore  of  Lochleven)  and  Queen’s-ferry. 
I am  inclined  to  think  Burns  knew  nothing  of 
poor  Michael  Bruce,  who  was  then  alive  at  Kin- 
ross, or  had  died  there  a short  while  before.  A 
meeting  between  the  bards,  or  a visit  to  the  de- 
serted cottage  and  early  grave  of  poor  Bruce, 
would  have  been  highly  interesting.* 

“At  Dunfermline  we  visited  the  ruined  ab- 
bey and  the  abbey  church,  now  consecrated  to 
Presbyterian  worship.  Here  I mounted  the  cut- 
ty stool,  or  stool  of  repentance,  assuming  the 
character  of  a penitent  for  fornication  ; while 
Burns  from  the  pulpit  addressed  to  me  a ludic- 
rous reproof  and  exhortation,  parodied  .from  that 
which  had  been  delivered  to  himself  in  Ayr- 
shire, where  he  had,  as  he  assured  me,  once 
been  one  of  seven  who  mounted  the  seat  of  shame 
together. 

“In  the  church-yard  two  broad  flag-stones 
marked  the  grave  of  Robert  Bruce,  for  whose 
memory  Burns  had  more  than  common  vener- 
ation. He  knelt  and  kissed  the  stone  with  sa- 
cred fervor,  and  heartily  ( suus  ut  mos  erat ) exe- 
crated the  worse  than  Gothic  neglect  of  the  first 
of  Scottish  heroes.”t 


The  surprise  expressed  by  Dr.  Adair,  in  his 
excellent  letter,  that  the  romantic  scenery  of  the 
Devon  should  have  failed  to  call  forth  any  ex- 
ertion of  the  poet’s  muse,  is  not  in  its  nature 
singular;  and  the  disappointment  felt  at  his  not 
expressing  in  more  glowing  language  his  emo- 
tions on  the  sight  of  the  famous  cataract  of  that 
river,  is  similar  to  what  was  felt  by  the  friends 
of  Burns  on  other  occasions  of  the  same  nature. 
Yet  the  inference  that  Dr.  Adair  seems  inclined 
to  draw  from  it,  that  he^fcad  little  taste  for  the 
picturesque,  might  be  questioned, even  if  it  stood 
uncontroverted  by  other  evidence.  The  muse 
of  Burns  was  in  a high  degree  capricious;  she 
came  uncalled,  and  often  refused  to  attend  at  his 
bidding.  Of  all  the  numerous  subjects  suggest- 
ed to  him  by  his  friends  and  correspondents, 
there  is  scarcely  one  that  he  adopted.  The  very 
expectation  that  a particular  occasion  would  ex- 
cite the  energies  of  his  fancy,  if  communicated  to 
Burns,  seemed  in  him,  as  in  other  poets,  de- 
structive of  the  effect  expected.  Hence  perhaps 
may  be  explained,  why  the  banks  of  the  Devon 
and  of  the  Tweed  form  no  part  of  the  subjects 
of  his  songs. 

A similar  train  of  reasoning  may  perhaps  ex- 
plain the  want  of  emotion  with  which  he  view 
ed  the  Cauldron  Linn.  Certainly  there  are  no 

* Bruce  died  some  years  before.  E. 

t Extracted  from  a letter  of  Dr.  Adair  to  the  Editor. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


affections  of  the  mind  more  deadened  by  the  in- 
fluence of  previous  expectation,  than  those  aris- 
ing from  the  sight  of  natural  objects,  and  more 
especially  of  objects  of  grandeur.  Minute  de- 
scriptions of  scenes,  of  a sublime  nature,  should 
never  be  given  to  those  who  are  about  to  view 
them,  particularly  if  they  are  persons  of  great 
strength  and  sensibility  of  imagination.  Lan- 
guage seldom  or  never  conveys  an  adequate  idea 
of  such  objects,  but  in  the  mind  of  a great  poet 
it  may  excite  a picture  that  far  transcends  them. 
The  imagination  of  Burns  might  form  a cataract, 
in  comparison  with  which  the  Caldron  Linn 
would  seem  the  purling  of  a rill,  and  even  the 
mighty  falls  of  Niagara,  an  humble  cascade.* 

Whether  these  suggestions  may  assist  in  ex- 
plaining our  bard's  deficiency  of  impression  on 
the  occasion  referred  to,  or  whether  it  ought 
rather  to  be  imputed  to  some  pre-occupation,  or 
indisposition  of  mind,  we  presume  not  to  decide; 
but  that  he  was  in  general  feelingly  alive  to  the 
beautiful  or  sublime  in  scenery,  may  be  support- 
ed by  irresistible. evidence.  It  is  true  this  pleas- 
ure was  greatly  heightened  in  his  mind,  as  might 
be  expected,  when  combined  with  moral  emo- 
tions of  a kind  with  which  it  haply  unites.  That 
under  this  association  Burns  contemplated  the 
scenery  of  the  Devon  with  the  eye  of  a genuine 
poet,  some  lines  which  he  wrote  at  this  very  pe- 
riod, may  bear  witness. t 

The  different  journeys  already  mentioned  did 
not  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  Burns.  About  the 
beginning  of  September,  he  again  set  out  from 
Edinburgh  on  a more  extended  tour  to  the  High- 
lands, in  company  with  Mr.  Nicol,  with  whom 
he  had  now  contracted  a particular  intimacy, 
which  lasted  during  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
Mr.  Nicol  was  of  Dumfrieshire,  of  a descent 
equally  humble  with  our  poet.  Like  him  he  rose 
by  the  strength  of  his  talents,  and  fell  by  the 
strength  of  his  passions.  He  died  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1797.  Having  received  the  elements  of 
a classical  instruction  at  his  parish-school,  Mr. 
Nicol  made  a very  rapid  and  singular  proficien- 
cy ; and  by  early  undertaking  the  office  of  an 
instructor  himself,  he  acquired  the  means  of  en- 
tering himself  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh. 
There  he  was  first  a student  of  theology,  then  a 
student  of  medicine,  and  was  employed  in  the 
assistance  and  instruction  of  graduates  in  medi- 
cine, in  those  parts  of  their  exercises  in  which 
the  Latin  language  is  employed.  In  this  situa- 
tion he  was  the  contemporary  and  rival  of 
the  celebrated  Dr.  Brown,  whom  he  resembled 
in  the  particulars  of  his  history,  as  well  as  in  the 

* This  reasoning  might  be  extended,  with  some 
modifications,  to  objects  of  sight  of  every  kind.  To 
have  formed  before-hand  a distinct  picture  in  the 
mind,  of  any  interesing  person  or  thing,  generally 
lessens  the  pleasure  of  the  first  meeting  with  them. 
Though  thi3  picture  be  not  superior,  or  even  equal  to 
the  reality,  still  it  can  never  be  expected  to  be  an  ex- 
act resemblance ; ami  the  disappointment  felt  at  find- 
ing the  object  something  different  from  what  was  ex- 
pected. interrupts  and  diminishes  the  emotions  that 
would  otherwise  be  produced.  In  such  cases  the  sec- 
ond or  third  interview  gives  more  pleasure  than  the 
first. — See  the  Elements  of  the  Philosnph  >j  of  the  Human 
Mind. , by  Mr.  Stewart , p.  484.  Such  publications  as 
The  Guide  to  the  Lakes,  where  every  scene  is  describ- 
ed in  the  most  minute  manner,  and  sometimes  with 
considerable  exaggeration  of  language,  are  in  this 
point  of  view  objectionable. 

i See  the  song  begnining, 

“How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear-winding  De- 
von,” Poems, page  5d. 


191 

leading  features  of  his  character.  The  office  of 
assistant -teacher  in  the  High-school  being  va- 
cant, it  was,  as  usual,  filled  by  competition  ; and 
in  the  face  of  some  prejudices,  and,  perhaps,  of 
some  well-founded  objections,  Mr.  Nicol,  by 
superior  learning,  carried  it  from  all  the  other 
candidates.  This  office  he  filled  at  the  period 
of  which  we  speak. 

It  is  to  be  lamented  that  an  acquaintance  with 
the  writers  of  Greece  and  Rome  does  not  al- 
ways supply  an  original  want  of  taste  and  cor- 
rectness in  manners  and  conduct ; and  where  it 
fails  of  this  effect,  it  sometimes  inflames  the  na- 
tive pride  of  temper,  which  treats  with  disdain 
those  delicacies  in  which  it  has  not  learned  to 
excel.  It  was  thus  with  the  fellow' -traveler  of 
Burns.  Formed  by  nature  in  a model  of  great 
strength,  neither  his  person  nor  his  manners  had 
any  tincture  of  taste  or  elegance  ; and  his  coarse- 
ness was  not  compensated  by  that  romantic  sen- 
sibility, and  those  towering  flights  of  imagina- 
tion which  distinguished  the  conversation  of 
Burns,  in  the  blaze  of  whose  genius  all  the  de- 
ficiencies of  his  manners  were  absorbed  and  dis- 
appeared. 

Mr.  Nicol  and  our  poet  traveled  in  a post- 
chaise,  which  they  engaged  for  the  journey,  and 
passing  through  the  heart  of  the  Highlands, 
stretched  northwards,  about  ten  miles  beyond 
Inverness.  There  they  bent  their  course  east- 
ward, across  the  island,  and  returned  by  the 
shore  of  the  German  sea  to  Edinburgh.  In  the 
course  of  this  tour,  some  particulars  of  which 
will  be  found  in  a letter  of  our  bard,  No.  XXX. 
they  visited  a number  of  remarkable  scenes,  and 
the  imagination  of  Burns  was  constantly  excited 
by  the  wild  and  sublime  scenery  through  which 
he  passed.  Of  this  several  proofs  may  be  found 
in  the  poems  formerly  printed.*  Of  the  history 
of  one  of  these  poems,  The  Humble  Petition  of 
Bruar  Water,  and  of  the  bard’s  visit  to  Athole 
House,  some  particulars  will  be  found  in  No. 
XXIX;  and  by  the  favor  of  Mr.  Walker  of  Perth, 
then  residing  in  the  family  of  the  Duke  of  Ath- 
ole, we  are  enabled  to  give  the  following  addi- 
tional account : 

“ On  reaching  Blair  he  sent  me  notice  of  his 
arrival  (as  I had  been  previously  acquainted 
with  him,)  and  I hastened  to  meet  him  at  the  inn. 
The  Duke,  to  wrhom  he  brought  a letter  of  in- 
troduction was  from  home;  but  the  Duchess, 
being  informed  of  his  arrival,  gave  him  an  in- 
vitation to  sup  and  sleep  at  Athole  House.  He 
accepted  the  invitation  ; but  as  the  hour  of  sup- 
per w'as  at  some  distance,  begged  I w'ould  in  the 
interval  be  his  guide  through  the  grounds.  It 
was  already  growing  dark  ; yet  the  softened 
though  faint  and  uncertain  view  of  their  beauties, 
which  the  moonlight  afforded  us,  seemed  exact- 
ly suited  to  the  state  of  his  feelings  at  the  time. 
I had  often,  like  others,  experienced  the  pleas- 
ures which  arise  from  the  sublime  or  elegant 
landscape,  but  I never  saw  those  feelings  so  in- 
tense as  in  Burns.  When  we  reached  a rusitc 
hut  on  the  river  Tilt,  where  it  is  overhung  by  a 
woody  precipiece,  from  which  there  is  a noble 
water-fall,  he  threw  himself  on  the  heathy  seat, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  a tender,  abstracted,  and 
* See  “ Lines  on  scaring  some  water-fowl  in  Loch- 
Tnrit,  a wild  scene  among  the  hills  of  Ochtertyre.” 
“Lines  written  witli  a Pencil  over  the  Chimney-piece 
in  the  Inn  at  Kenmore,  Taymouth.”  “Lines  writ- 
ten with  a pencil  standing  by  the  fall  of  Fyers,  near 
Lochness.” 


192 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


voluptuous  enthusiasm  of  imagination.  I can- 
not help  thinking  it  might  have  been  there  that 
he  conceived  the  idea  of  the  following  lines, 
which  he  afterwards  introduced  into  his  poem 
on  Bruar  Water , when  only  fancying  such  a 
combination  of  objects  as  wrere  now  present  to 
his  eye. 

Or,  by  the  reaper’s  nightly  beam, 

Mild,  chequering  through  the  trees. 

Rave  to  my  darkly-dashing  stream, 
Hoarse-swelling  on  the  breeze. 

“ It  was  with  much  difficulty  I prevailed  on 
him  to  quit  the  spot,  and  to  be  introduced  in 
proper  time  to  supper. 

“My  curiosity  was  great  to  see  how  he  would 
conduct  himself  in  company  so  different  from 
what  he  had  been  accustomed  to.*  His  man- 
ner was  unembarassed,  plain  and  firm.  He  ap- 
peared to  have  complete  reliance  on  his  own  na- 
tive good  sense  for  directing  his  behavior.  He 
seemed  at  once  to  perceive  and  to  appreciate 
what  was  due  to  the  company  and  to  himself, 
and  never  to  forget  a proper  respect  for  the  sep- 
arate species  of  dignity  belonging  to  each.  He 
did  not  arrogate  conversation,  but  wdien  led  into 
it,  he  spoke  with  ease,  propriety,  and  manliness. 
He  tried  to  exert  his  abilities,  because  he  knew  it 
was  ability  alone  that  gave  him  a title  to  be  there. 
The  Duke’s  fine  young  family  attracted  much 
of  his  admiration  ; he  drank  their  healths  as  hon- 
est men  and  bonnie  lasses,  an  idea  which  was 
much  applauded  by  the  company,  and  with 
which  he  very  felicitously  closed  his  poem.t 
“ Next  day  I took  a ride  with  him  through 
some  of  the  most  romantic  parts  of  that  neigh- 
borhood, and  was  highly  gratified  by  his  conver- 
sation. As  a specimen  of  his  happiness  of  con- 
ception and  strength  of  expression.  I will  men- 
tion a remark  which  he  made  on  his  fellpw-tra- 
veler,  who  was  walking  at  the  time  a few  pa- 
ces before  us.  He  was  a man  of  robust  but  clum- 
py person  ; and  while  Burns  was  expressing  to 
me  the  value  he  entertained  for  him  on  account 
of  his  vigorous  talents,  although  they  were  cloud- 
ed at  times  by  coarseness  of  manners  ; ‘in  snort,1 
he  added,  ‘ his  mind  is  like  his  body,  he  has  a 
confounded  strong,  inkneed  sort  of  a soul.1 

“ Much  attention  was  paid  to  Burns  both  be- 
fore and  after  the  Duke’s  return,  of  which  he 
was  perfectly  sensible,  without  being  vain  ; and 
at  his  departure  I recommended  to  him,  as  the 
most  appropriate  return  he  could  make,  to  write 
gome  descriptive  verses  on  any  of  the  scenes 
with  which  he  had  been  so  much  delighted. 
After  leaving  Blair,  he,  by  the  Duke’s  advice, 
visited  the  Falls  of  Bruar,  and  in  a few  days  I 
received  a letter  from  Inverness,  with  the  vers- 
es enclosed.”  t 

It  appears  that  the  impression  made  by  our 
poet  on  the  noble  family  of  Athole,  was  in  a 
high  degree  favorable ; it  is  certain  he  was 
charmed  with  the  reception  he  received  from 
them,  and  he  often  mentioned  the  two  days  he 
apent  at  Athole  House  as  amongst  the  happiest 
of  his  life.  He  was  warmly  invited  to  pro- 
long his  stay,  but  sacrificed  his  inclinations  to 
his  engagement  with  Mr.  Nicol;  which  is  the 
* In  the  preceding  winter.  Burns  had  been  in  com- 
pany of  the  highest  rank  in  Edinburgh;  hut  tiiis  de- 
scription of  his  manners  is  perfectly  applicable  to  his 
first  appearance  in  such  society. 

t See  The  Humble  Petition  of  Bruar  Water, 
j Extract  of  a letter  from  Mr.  Walker  to  Mr.  Cun- 
ningham. See  Letter,  No.  XXIX. 


more  to  be  regretted,  as  he  would  otherwise 
have  been  introduced  to  Mr.  Dundas  (then  daily 
expected  on  a visit  to  the  Duke,)  a circumstance 
which  might  have  had  a favorable  influence  on 
Burns’  future  fortunes.  At  Athole  House  he 
met,  for  the  first  time,  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry, 
to  whom  he  was  afterwards  indebted  for  his  of- 
fice in  the  Excise. 

The  letter  and  poems  which  he  addressed  to 
Mr.  Graham,  bear  testimony  of  his  sensibility, 
and  justify  the  supposition,  that  he  would  not 
have  been  deficient  in  gratitude  had  he  been 
elevated  to  a situaiion  better  suited  to  his  dis- 
position and  to  his  talents.* 

A few  days  after  leaving  Blair  of  Athole,  our 
poet  and  his  fellow-travelerarrivedat  Fochabers. 
In  the  course  of  the  preceding  winter  Burns  had 
been  introduced  to  the  Dutchess  of  Gordon  at 
Edinburgh,  and  presuming  on  this  acquaintance, 
he  proceeded  to  Gordon- Castle,  leaving  Mr. 
Nicol  at  the  inn  in  the  village.  At  the  castle 
our  poet  was  received  with  the  utmost  hospi- 
tality and  kindness,  and  the  family  being  about 
to  sit  down  to  dinner,  he  was  invited  to  take 
his  place  at  the  table  as  a matter  of  course. 
This  invitation  he  accepted,  and  after  drinking 
a few  glasses  of  wine,  he  rose  up,  and  proposed 
to  withdraw.  On  being  pressed  to  stay,  he 
mentioned  for  the  first  time,  his  engagement 
with  his  fellow-traveler:  and  his  noble  host 
offering  to  send  a servant  to  conduct  Mr.  Nicol 
to  the  castle,  Burns  insisted  on  undertaking 
that  office  himself.  He  was,  however,  accom- 
panied by  a gentleman,  a particular  acquaint- 
ance of  the  Duke,  by  whom  the  invitation  was 
delivered  in  all  the  forms  of  politeness.  The 
invitation  came  too  late  ; the  pride  of  Nicol  was 
inflamed  into  a high  degree  of  passion,  by  the 
neglect  which  he  had  already  suffered.  He  had 
ordered  the  horses  to  be  put  to  the  carriage, 
being  determined  to  proceed  on  his  journey 
alone  ; and  they  found  him  parading  the  streets 
of  Fochahers,  before  the  door  of  the  inn,  vent- 
ing his  anger  on  the  postillion,  for  the  slowness 
with  which  he  obeyed  his  commands.  As  no 
explanation  nor  entreaty  could  change  the  pur- 
pose of  his  fellow-traveler,  our  poet  was  reduc- 
ed to  the  necessity  of  separating  from  him  en- 
tirely, or  of  instantly  proceeding  with  him  on 
their  journey.  He  chose  the  last  of  these  al- 
ternatives ; and  seating  himself  beside  Nicol  in 
the  post-chaise  with  mortification  and  regret, 
he  turned  his  back  on  Gordon  Castle  where  he 
had  promised  himself  some  happy  days.  Sen- 
sible, however,  of  the  great  kindness  of  the  no- 
ble family,  he  made  the  best  return  in  his  pow- 
er, by  the  poem  beginning, 

“Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains.”! 

Burns  remained  at  Edinburgh  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  winter,  1787-8,  and  again 
entered  into  the  society  and  dissipation  of  that 
metropolis.  It  appears  that  on  the  31st  day  of 
December,  he  attended  a meeting  to  celebrate 
the  birth-day  of  the  lineal  descendant  of  the 
Scottish  race  of  kings,  the  late  unfortunate 
Prince  Charles  Edward.  Whatever  might  have 
been  the  wish  or  purpose  of  the  original  in- 
stitutors  of  this  annual  meeting,  there  is  no  rea- 

*See  the  first  Epistle  to  Mr.  Graham,  soliciting  an 
employment  in  the  Excise,  Letter  No.  LVI.  and  his 
second  Epistle,  Poems,  p.  48. 

+ This  information  is  extracted  from  a letter  of  Dr. 
Couper  of  Fochabers,  to  the  Editor. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


193 


son  to  suppose  that  the  gentlemen  of  whom  it 
was  at  this  time  composed,  were  not  perfectly 
loyal  to  the  king  on  the  throne.  It  is  not  to 
be  conceived  that  they  entertained  any  hope  of, 
any  wish  for,  the  restoration  of  the  House  of 
Stuart ; but,  over  their  sparkling  wine,  they  in- 
dulged the  generous  feelings  which  the  recol- 
lection of  fallen  greatness  is  calculated  to  in- 
spire ; and  comemorated  the  heroic  valor  which 
strove  to  sustain  it  in  vain — valor  worthy  of  a 
nobler  cause,  and  a happier  fortune.  On  this 
occasion  our  bard  took  upon  himself  the  office 
of  poet-laureate,  and  produced  an  ode,  which, 
though  deficient  in  the  complicated  rhythm  and 
polished  versification  that  such  compositions  re- 
quire, might,  on  a fair  competition,  where  energy 
of  feelings  and  ofexpression  were  alone  in  ques- 
tion, have  won  the  butt  of  malmsey  from  the  real 
laureate  of  that  day. 

The  following  extracts  may  serve  as  a speci- 
men : 

» * * * * % 

False  flatterer,  Hope,  away! 

Nor  thipk  to  lure  us  as  in  days  of  yore  ; 

We  solemnize  this  sorrowing  natal  day. 

To  prove  our  loyal  truth — we  can  no  more  : 

And.  owning  Heaven’s  mysterious  sway. 
Submissive,  low,  adore. 

Ye  honored,  mighty  dead  ! 

Who  nobly  perished  in  the  glorious  cause, 

Your  king,  your  country,  and  her  laws  ! 

From  great  Dundee,  who  smiling  victory  led, 
And  fell  a martyr  in  her  arms, 

(What  breast  of  northern  ice  but  warms  ?) 

To  bold  13a!merino’s  undying  name,  [flame. 
Whose  soul  of  fire,  lighted  at  Heaven’s  high 
Deserves  the  proudest  wreath  departed  heroes 
claim.* 

Nor  unrevenged  your  fate  shall  be, 

It  only  lags  the  fatal  hour  ; 

Your  blood  shall  with  incessant  cry 
Awake  at  last  the  unsparing  power 
As  from  the  cliff",  with  thundering  course 
The  snowy  ruin  smokes  along, 

With  doubling  speed  and  gathering  force, 

Till  deep  it  crashing  whelms  the  cottage  in  the  vale! 
So  Vengeance  * * * 

In  relating  the  incidents  of  our  poet's  life  in 
Edinburgh, we  ought  to  have  mentioned  the  sen- 
timents of  respect  and  sympathy  with  which  he 
traced  out  the  grave  of  his  predecessor  Ferguson, 
over  whose  ashes  in  the  Canongate  church-yard, 
he  obtained  leave  to  erect  an  humble  monument, 
which  will  be  viewed  by  reflecting  minds  with 
no  common  interest,  and  which  will  awake  in 
the  bosom  of  kindred  genius,  many  a high  emo- 
tion. t Neither  should  we  pass  over  the  contin- 
ued friendship  he  experienced  from  a poet  then 
living,  the  amiable  and  accomplished  Black- 
lock. — To  his  encouraging  advice  it  was  owing 
(as  has  already  appeared)  that  Burns,  instead  of 
emigrating  to  the  West  Indies,  repaired  to  Ed- 
inburgh. He  received  him  there  with  all  the  ar- 
dor of  affectionate  admiration  ; he  eagerly  intro- 
duced him  to  the  respectable  circle  of  his  friends; 

* In  the  first  part  of  this  ode,  there  is  some  beauti- 
ful imagery,  which  the  poet  afterwards  interwove  in 
a happier  mariner  in  the  Chevalier's  Lament.  (See 
Letter,  No.  LXV.)  But  if  there  were  no  other  rea- 
sons for  omitting  to  print  the  entire  poem,  the  want 
of  originality  would  be  sufficient.  A considerable 
part  of  it  is  a kind  of  rant,  for  which  indeed  precedent 
may  be  cited  in  various  birth-day  odes,  but  with 
which  it  is  impossible  to  go  along. 

1 See  Letters  No.  XIX.  and  XX.,  where  the  English 
will  be  found,  dec.  1 


he  consulted  his  interest ; he  blazoned  his  fame  ; 
he  lavished  upon  him  all  the  kindness  of  a gen- 
erous and  feeling  heart,  into  which  nothing  sel- 
fish or  envious  ever  found  admittance.  Among 
the  friends  to  whom  he  introduced  Burns  was 
Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre,  to  whom  our  poet 
paid  a visit  in  the  autumn  of  1787,  at  his  delight- 
ful retirement  in  the  neighborhood  of  Stirling, 
and  on  the  banks  of  the  Tcith.  Of  this  visit  we 
have  the  following  particulars: 

“ I have  been  in  the  company  of  many  men 
of  genius,”  says  Mr.  Ramsay,  “some  of  them 
poets;  but  never  witnessed  such  flashes  of  in- 
tellectual brightness  as  from  him,  the  impulse 
of  the  moment,  sparks  of  celestial  fire  ! 1 nev- 

er was  more  delighted,  therefore,  than  with  his 
company  for  two  days,  tete-a-tete.  In  a mixed 
company  I should  have  made  little  of  him  ; for, 
in  the  gamester’s  phrase,  he  did  not  always 
know  when  to  play  off’  and  when  to  play  on.  * 
* * I not  only  proposed  the  writing  of  a play 
similar  to  the  Gentle  Shepherd,  qualem  decet  es- 
se sorrem,  but  Scottish  Georgies,  a subject  which 
Thomson  has  by  no  means  exhausted  in  his 
Seasons.  What  beautiful  landscapes  of  rural 
life  and  manners  might  not  have  been  expected 
from  a pencil  so  faithful  and  forcible  as  his, 
which  could  have  exhibited  scenes  as  familiar 
and  interesting  as  those  in  the  Gentle  Shepherd, 
which  every  one  who  knows  our  swains  in  their 
unadulterated  state,  instantly  recognises  as  true 
to  nature.  But  to  have  executed  either  of  these 
plans,  steadiness  and  abstraction  from  company 
were  wanting,  not  talents.  When  I asked  him 
whether  the  hidinburgh  Literati  had  mended  his 
poems  by  their  criticisms,  ‘ Sir,’  said  he,  4 these 
gentlemen  remind  me  of  some  spinsters  in  my 
country,  who  spin  their  thread  so  fine  that  it  is 
neither  fit  for  weft  nor  woof.’  He  said  that  he 
had  not  changed  a word  except  one  to  please  Dr. 
Blair.”* 

Having  settled  with  his  publisher,  Mr.  Creech, 
in  February,  1788,  Burns  found  himself  master 
of  nearly  five  hundred  pounds,  after  discharging 
all  his  expenses.  Two  hundred  pounds  he  im- 
mediately advanced  to  his  brother  Gilbert,  who 
had  taken  on  himself  the  support  of  their  aged 
mother,  and  was  struggling  wiih  many  difficul- 
ties in  the  farm  of  Mossgiel.  With  the  remain- 
der of  this  sum,  and  some  farther  eventful  prof- 
its from  his  poems,  he  determined  on  settling 
himself  for  life  in  the  occupation  of  agriculture, 
and  took  from  Mr.  Miller,  of  Dalswinton,  the 
farm  of  Ellisland,  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Nith, 
six  miles  above  Dumfries,  on  which  he  entered 
at  Whitsunday,  1788.  Having  been  previously 
recommended  to  the  Board  of  Excise,  his  name 
had  been  put  on  the  list  of  candidates  for  the 
humble  office  of  a gauger  or  exciseman  ; and  he 
immediately  applied  to  acquiring  the  information 
necessary  for  filling  that  office,  when  the  honor- 
able Board  might  judge  it  proper  to  employ  him. 
He  expected  to  be  called  into  service  in  the  dis- 
trict in  which  his  farm  was  situated,  and  vainly 
hoped  to  unite  with  success  the  labors  of  the 
farmer  with  the  duties  of  the  exciseman. 

* Extract  of  a letter  from  Mr.  Ramsay  to  the  Editor. 
This  incorrigibility  of  Burns  extended,  however,  only 
to  his  poems  printed  before  be  arrived  in  Edinburgh;. 
for  in  regard  to  his  unpublished  poems,  he  was  amen- 
able to  criticism,  of  which  many  proofs  might  he  giv- 
en. .See  some  remarks  on  this  subject,  in  the  Appen- 
dix. 


194 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


When  Burns  had  in  this  manner  arranged  his 
plans  for  futurity,  his  generous  heart  turned  to 
the  object  of  his  most  ardent  attachment,  and  lis- 
tening to  no  considerations  but  those  of  honor 
and  affection,  he  joined  with  her  in  a public  de- 
claration of  marriage,  thus  legalizing  their  un- 
ion, and  rendering  it  permanent  for  life. 

Before  Burns  was  known  in  Edinburgh,  a 
specimen  of  his  poetry  had  recomtnended  him 
to  Mr.  Miller  of  Dalwiston.  Understanding 
that  he  intended  to  resume  the  life  of  a farmer, 
Mr.  Miller  had  invited  him,  in  the  spring  of 
1787,  to  view  his  estate  in  Nithsdale,  offering 
him  at  the  same  time  the  choice  of  any  of  his 
farms  out  of  lease,  at  such  a rent  as  Burns  and 
his  friends  might  judge  proper.  It  was  not  in  the 
nature  of  Burns  to  take  an  undue  advantage  of 
the  liberality  of  Mr.  Miller.  He  proceeded  in 
this  business,  however,  with  more  than  usual 
deliberation.  Having  made  choice  of  the  farm 
of  Ellisland,  he  employed  two  of  his  friends, 
skilled  in  the  value  of  land,  to  examine  it,  and 
with  their  approbation  offered  a rent  to  Mr.  Mil- 
ler, which  was  immediately  accepted.  It  was 
not  convenient  for  Mrs.  Burns  to  remove  im- 
mediately from  Ayrshire,  and  our  poet  therefore 
took  up  his  residence  alone  at  Ellisland,  to  pre- 
pare for  the  reception  of  his  wife  and  children, 
who  joined  him  towards  the  end  of  the  year. 

The  situation  in  which  Burns  now  found  him- 
self was  calculated  to  awaken  reflection.  The 
different  steps  he  had  of  late  taken  were  in  their 
nature  highly  important,  and  might  be  said  to 
have  in  some  measure  fixed  his  destiny.  He 
had  become  a husband  and  a father  ; he  had  en- 
gaged in  the  management  of  a considerable  farm, 
a difficult  and  laborious  undertaking  ; in  his  suc- 
cess the  happiness  of  his  family  was  involved  ; 
it  was  time,  therefore,  to  abandon  the  gayety 
and  dissipation  of  which  he  had  been  too  much 
enamored  ; to  ponder  seriously  on  the  past,  and 
to  form  virtuous  resolutions  respecting  the  fu- 
ture. That  such  was  actually  the  state  of  his 
mind,  the  following  extract  from  his  common- 
place book  may  bear  witness  : 

“ Ellisland,  Sunday,  14 th  June,  1788. 

This  is  now  the  third  day  that  I have  been 
in  this  country.  4 Lord,  what  is  man  !’  What  a 
bustling  little  bundle  of  passions,  appetites,  ideas 
and  fancies  1 and  what  a capricious  kind  of  ex- 
istence he  has  here  ! * * * There  is  indeed  an 
elswhere,  where,  as  Thomson  says,  virtue  sole 
survives. 

‘Tell  us.  ye  dead, 

Will  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret 

What  ’tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be  ? 

A little  time 

Will  make  us  wise  as  you  are,  and  as  close.’ 

“ I am  such  a coward  in  life,  so  tired  of  the 
service,  that  I would  almost  at  any  time,  with 
Milton’s  Adam,  4 gladly  lay  me  in  my  mother’s 
lap,  and  be  at  peace.’ 

“ But  a wife  and  children  bind  me  to  strug- 
gle with  the  stream,  till  some  sudden  squall  shall 
overset  the  silly  vessel ; or  in  the  listless  return 
of  years,  its  own  craziness  reduce  it  to  a wreck. 
Farewell  now  to  those  giddy  follies,  those  var- 
nished vices,  which,  though  half-sanctified  by  the 
bewitching  levity  of  wit  and  humor,  are  at  best 
but  thriftless  idling  with  the  precious  current  of 
existence  ; nay,  often  poisoning  the  whole,  that, 
like  the  plains  of  Jericho,  the  water  is  nought, 
and  the  ground  barren,  and  nothing  short  of  a 


supernaturally  gifted  Elisha  can  ever  after  heal 
the  evils. 

44  Wedlock,  the  circumstance  that  buckles 
me  hardest  to  care,  if  virtue  and  religion  were 
to  be  any  thing  with  me  but  names,  was  what 
in  a few  seasons  I must  have  resolved  on  ; in 
my  present  situation  it  was  absolutely  necessa- 
ry. Humanity,  generosity,  honest  pride  of  char- 
acter, justice  to  my  own  happiness  for  after-life, 
so  far  as  it  could  depend  (which  it  surely  will  a 
great  deal)  on  internal  peace  ; all  these  joined 
their  warmest  suffrages,  their  most  powerful  so- 
licitations, with  a rooted  attachment,  to  urge 
the  step  I have  taken.  Nor  have  I any  reason 
on  her  part  to  repent  it.  I can  fancy  how,  but 
have  never  seen  where,  I could  have  made  a 
better  choice.  Come,  then,  let  me  act  up  to 
my  favorite  motto,  that  glorious  passage  in 
Y oung — 

“ On  reason  build  resolve, 

That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man !” 

Under  the  impulse  of  these  reflections,  Burns 
immediately  engaged  in  rebuilding  the  dwelling- 
house  on  his  farm,  which,  in  the  state  he  found 
it,  was  inadequate  to  the  accommodation  of  his 
family.  On  this  occasion,  he  himself  resumed 
at  times  the  occupation  of  a laborer,  and  found 
neither  his  strength  or  his  skill  impaired.  Pleas- 
ed with  surveying  the  grounds  he  was  about  to 
cultivate,  and  with  the  rearing  of  a building  that 
should  give  shelter  to  his  wife  and  children,  and, 
as  he  fondly  hoped,  to  his  own  gray  hairs,  sen- 
timents of  independence  buoyed  up  his  mind, 
pictures  of  domestic  content  and  peace  rose  on 
his  imagination  ; and  a few  days  passed  away, 
as  he  himself  informs  us,  the  most  tranquil,  if 
not  the  happiest,  which  he  had  ever  experien- 
ced.* 

It  is  to  be  lamented  that  at  this  critical  period 
of  his  life , our  poet  was  without  the  society  of 
his  wife  and  children.  A great  change  had  ta- 
ken place  in  his  situation  ; his  old  habits  were 
broken  ; and  the  new  circumstances  in  which 
he  was  placed  were  calculated  to  give  a new  di- 
rection to  his  thoughts  and  conduct. t But  his 
application  to  the  cares  and  labors  of  his  farm 
was  interrupted  by  several  visits  to  his  family 
in  Ayrshire  ; and  as  the  distance  was  too  great 
for  a single  day’s  journey,  he  generally  spent  a 
night  at  an  inn  on  the  road.  On  such  occasions 
he  sometimes  fell  into  company,  and  forgot  the 
resolutions  he  had  formed.  In  a little  while 
temptation  assailed  him  nearer  home. 

His  fame  naturally  drew  upon  him  the  atten- 
tion of  his  neighbors,  and  he  soon  formed  a gen- 
eral acquaintance  in  the  district  in  which  he  liv- 
ed. The  public  voice  had  now  pronounced  on 
the  subject  of  his  talents;  the  reception  he  had  met 
with  in  Edinburgh  had  given  him  the  currency 
which  fashion  bestows  ; he  had  surmounted  the 
prejudices  arising  from  his  humble  birth,  and 
he  was  received  at  the  table  of  the  gentlemen  of 
Nithsdale  with  welcome,  with  kindness,  and 
even  with  respect.  Their  social  parties  too  of- 

* Animated  sentiments  of  any  kind,  almost  always 
gave  rise  in  our  poet  to  some  production  of  his  muse. 
His  sentiments  on  this  occasion  were  in  part  expres- 
sed by  the  vigorous  and  characteristic,  though  not 
very  delicate  song,  beginning, 

“ I hae  a wife  o’  my  ain, 

I’ll  partake  wi’  nae  body 

t Mrs.  Burns  was  about  to  be  confined  in  child-bed, 
and  the  house  at  Ellisland  was  rebuilding. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


195 


ten  seduced  him  from  his  rustic  labor  and  his 
rustic  fare,  overthrew  the  unsteady  fabric  of  his 
resolutions,  and  inflamed  those  propensities 
which  temperance  might  have  weakened,  and 
prudence  ultimately  suppressed.*  it  was  not 
long,  therefore,  before  Burns  began  to  view  his 
farm  with  dislike  and  despondence,  if  not  with 
disgust. 

Unfortunately  he  had  for  several  years  looked 
to  an  office  in  ihe  excise  as  a certain  means  of 
livelihood,  should  his  other  expectations  fail. 
As  has  already  been  mentioned,  he  had  been 
recommended  to  the  board  of  excise,  and  had  re- 
ceived the  instructions  necessary  for  such  a sit- 
uation. He  now  applied  to  be  employed ; and 
by  the  interest  of  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry,  was 
appointed  exciseman,  or,  as  it  is  vulgarly  called, 
gauger,  of  the  district  in  which  he  lived.  His 
farm  was.  after  this,  in  a great  measure  abandon- 
ed to  servants,  while  he  betook  himself  to  the 
duties  of  his  new  appointment. 

He  might,  indeed,  still  be  seen  in  the  spring, 
directing  his  plough,  a labor  in  which  he  excel- 
led ; or  with  a white  sheet,  containing  his  seed- 
corn,  slung  across  his  shoulders,  striding  with 
measured  steps  along  his  turned-up  furrows,  and 
scattering  the  grain  in  the  earth.  But  his  farm 
no  longer  occupied  the  principal  part  of  his  care 
or  his  thoughts.  It  was  not  at  Ellisland  that  he 
was  now  in  general  to  be  found.  Mounted  on 
horseback,  this  high-minded  poet  was  pursuing 
the  defaulters  of  the  revenue,  among  the  hills 
and  vales  of  Nithsdale,  his  roving  eye  wander- 
ing over  the  charms  of  nature,  and  muttering 
his  wayward  fancies  as  he  moved  along. 

“I  had  an  adventure  with  him  in  the  year 
1790,”  says  Mr.  Ramsay,  of  Ochtertyre,  in  a 
letter  to  the  editor,  “ when  passing  through 
Dumfriesshire, on  a tour  to  the  South,  with  Dr. 
Stewart  of  Luss.  Seeing  him  pass  quickly,  near 
Closeburn,  I said  to  my  companion,  4 that  is 
Burns.’  On  coming  to  the  inn,  the  hostler  told 
us  he  would  be  back  in  a few  hours  to  grant  per- 
mits ; that  where  he  met  with  any  thing  seiza- 
ble,  he  was  no  better  than  any  other  gauger  ; in 
every  thing  else  he  wTas  perfectly  a gentleman. 
After  leaving  a note  to  be  delivered  to  him  on 
his  return,  I proceeded  to  his  house,  being  curi- 
ous to  see  his  Jean,  & c.  1 was  much  pleased 
with  his  uxor  Sabina  qualis,  and  the  poet’s  mod- 
est mansion,  so  unlike  the  habitation  of  ordinary 
rustics.  In  the  evening  he  suddenly  bounced 
in  upon  us,  and  said,  as  he  entered,  I come,  to 
use  the  words  of  Shakspeare,  stewed  in  haste. 
In  fact  he  had  ridden  incredibly  fast  after  receiv- 
ing my  note.  We  fell  into  conversation  direct- 
ly, and  soon  got  into  the  mare  magnum  ot  poet- 
ry. He  told  me  ho  had  now  gotten  a story  for 
a drama,  which  he  was  to  call  nob  Macqucchan's 
Elshon,  from  a popular  story  of  Robert  Bruce 

•The  poem  of  The  IVhistle  (Poem,  p.  55)  celebrates 
a bacchanalian  contest  among  three  gentlemen  of 
ISiihsdale,  where  Duma  appears  as  umpire.  Mr. Rid- 
dell died  before  our  bard,  and  some  elegant  verses  to 
his  memory  will  be  found  entitled.  Sonnet  on  the  death, 
of  Robert  Riddell.  From  him,  and  from  all  the  mem- 
bers of  his  family,  Dorns  received  not  kindness  only, 
but  friendship  ; and  the  society  he  met  in  general  at 
Friar’s  Carse  was  calculated  to  improve  his  habits  as 
well  as  his  manners.  Mr.  Fergusson  of  Craigdarroch, 
so  well  known  for  his  eloquence  and  social  talents, 
died  soon  after  our  poet.  Sir  Robert  Laurie,  the  third 
person  in  the  drama,  survives,  and  has  since  been  en- 
gaged in  a contest  of  a bloodier  nature.  Long  may 
he  live  to  fight  the  battles  of  his  country ! (1799.) 


being  defeated  on  the  water  of  Caern,  when  the 
heel  of  his  boot  having  loosened  in  his  flight,  he 
applied  to  Robert  Macquechan  to  fit  it ; who,  to 
make  sure,  ran  his  awl  ten  inches  up  the  king’s 
heel.  We  were  now  going  on  at  a great  rate, 

when  Mr.  S popped  in  his  head,  which  put 

a stop  to  our  discourse,  which  had  become  very 
interesting.  Yet  in  a little  while  it  was  resum- 
ed ; and  such  was  the  force  and  versatility  of 
the  bard’s  genius,  that  he  made  the  tears  rim 

down  Mr.  S ’s  cheeks,  albeit  unused  to 

the  poetic  strain.  * * * From  that  time  we 
met  no  more,  and  I was  grieved  at  the  reports 
of  him  afterwards.  Poor  Burns!  we  shall  hard- 
ly see  his  like  again.  He  was,  in  truth,  a sort 
of  a comet  in  literature,  irregular  in  its  motions, 
which  did  not  do  good  proportioned  to  the  blaze 
of  light  it  displayed.” 

In  the  summer  of  1791,  two  English  gentle- 
men, who  had  before  met  w-ith  him  in  Edin- 
burgh, paid  a visit  to  him  at  Ellisland.  On  call- 
ing at  the  house  they  were  informed  that  he  had 
walked  out  on  the  banks  of  the  river  ; and  dis- 
mounting from  their  horses,  they  proceeded  in 
search  of  him.  On  a rock  that  projected  into 
the  stream,  they  saw  a man  employed  in  ang- 
ling, of  a singular  appearance.  He  had  a cap 
made  of  a fox’s  skin  on  his  head,  a loose  great 
coat  fixed  rouud  him  by  a belt,  from  which  de- 
pended an  enormous  Highland  broad-sword.  It 
was  Burns.  He  received  them  with  great  cordi- 
ality, and  asked  them  to  share  his  humble  din- 
ner— an  invitation  which  they  accepted.  On  the 
table  they  found  boiled  beef,  with  vegetables, 
and  barley-broth,  after  the  manner  of  Scotland, 
of  which  they  partook  heartily.  After  dinner, 
the  bard  told  them  ingenuously  that  he  had  no 
wine  to  offer  them,  nothing  better  than  High- 
land whisky,  a bottle  of  which  Mrs.  Burns  set  on 
the  board.  He  produced  at  the  same  time  his 
punch-bowl,  made  of  Inverary  marble  ; and, 
mixing  the  spirit  with  water  and  sugar,  filled 
their  glasses,  and  invited  them  to  drink.*  The 
travelers  were  in  haste,  and  besides,  the  flavor 
of  the  whisky  to  their  southern  palates  was 
scarcely  tolerable  ; but  the  generous  poet  offer- 
ed them  his  best,  and  his  ardent  hospitality  they 
found  it  impossible  to  resist.  Burns  was  in  his 
happiest  mood,  and  the  charms  of  his  conversa- 
tion were  altogether  fascinating.  He  ranged 
over  a great  variety  of  topics,  illuminating  what- 
ever he  touched.  He  related  the  tales  of  his  in- 
fancy and  of  his  youth  ; he  recited  some  of  the 
gayest  and  some  of  the  tenderest  of  his  poems  ; 
in  the  wildest  of  his  strains  of  mirth,  he  threw 
in  some  touches  of  melancholy,  and  spread 
around  him  the  electric  emotions  of  his  power- 
ful mind.  The  Highland  whisky  improved  in 
its  flavor  ; the  marble  bowl  was  again  and  again 
emptied  and  replenished  ; the  guests  of  our  poet 
forgot  the  flight  of  lime,  and  the  dictates  of  pru- 
dence : at  the  hour  of  midnight  they  lost  their 
way  in  returning  to  Dumfries,  and  could  scarce- 
ly distinguish  it  when  assisted  by  the  morning’s 
dawn.t 

Besides  his  duties  in  the  excise  and  his  social 
pleasures,  other  circumstances  interfered  with 
the  attention  of  Burns  to  his  farm.  He  engag- 
ed in  the  formation  of  a society  for  purchasing 

• This  bowl  was  made  of  the  lapis  ollaris,  the  stone 
of  which  Inverary-house  is  built,  the  mansion  of  the 
family  of  Argyle. 

t Given  from  the  information  of  one  of  the  party. 


196 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


and  circulating  books  among  the  farmers  of  his 
neighborhood,  of  which  he  undertook  the  man- 
agement ;*  and  he  occupied  himself  occasional- 
ly in  composing  songs  for  the  musical  work  of 
Mr.  Johnson,  then  in  the  course  of  publication. 
These  engagements,  useful  and  honorable  in 
themselves,  contributed,  no  doubt,  to  the  ab- 
straction of  his  thoughts  from  the  business  of 
agriculture. 

The  consequence  may  be  easily  imagined. 
Notwithstanding  the  uniform  prudence  and  good 
management  of  Mrs.  Burns,  and  though  his 
rent  was  moderate  and  reasonable,  our  poet 
found  it  convenient,  if  not  necessary,  to  resign 
his  farm  to  Mr.  Miller  ; after  having  occupied 
it  three  years  and  a half.  His  office  in  the  ex- 
cise had  originally  produced  about  fifty  pounds 
per  annum.  Having  acquitted  himself  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  board,  he  had  been  appointed 
to  a new  district,  the  emoluments  of  which  rose 
to  about  seventy  pounds  per  annum.  Hoping 
to  support  himself  and  his  family  on  this  hum- 
ble income  till  promotion  should  reach  him,  he 
disposed  of  his  stock  and  of  his  crop  on  Ellis- 
land  by  public  auction,  and  removed  to  a small 
house  which  he  had  taken  in  Dumfries,  about 
the  end  of  the  year  1791. 

Hitherto  Burns,  though  addicted  to  excess  in 
social  parties,  had  abstained  from  the  habitual 
use  of  strong  liquors,  and  his  constitution  had 
not  suffered  any  permanent  injury  from  the  ir- 
regularities of  his  conduct.  In  Dumfries,  temp- 
tations to  the  sin  that  so  easily  beset  him , con- 
tinually presented  themselves  ; and  his  irregu- 
larities grew  by  degrees  into  habits.  These 
temptations  unhappily  occurred  during  his  en- 
gagements in  the  business  of  his  office,  as  well 
as  during  his  hours  of  relaxation  ; and  though 
he  clearly  foresaw  the  consequences  of  yielding 
to  them,  his  appetites  and  sensations,  which 
could  not  prevent  the  dictates  of  his  judgment, 
finally  triumphed  over  the  powers  of  his  will. 
Yet  this  victory  was  not  gained  without  many 
obstinate  struggles,  and  at  times  temperance 
and  virtue  seemed  to  have  obtained  the  mas- 
tery. Besides  his  engagements  in  the  excise, 
and  the  society  into  which  he  was  led,  many 
circumstances  contributed  to  the  melancholy 
fate  of  Burns.  His  great  celebrity  made  him 
an  object  of  interest  and  curiosity  to  strangers, 
and  few  persons  of  cultivated  minds  passed 
through  Dumfries  without  attempting  to  see 
our  poet,  and  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  his  con- 
versation. As  he  could  not  receive  them  under 
his  own  humble  roof,  these  interviews  passed 
at  the  inns  of  the  town,  and  often  terminated 
in  those  excesses  which  Burns  sometimes  pro- 
voked, and  was  seldom  able  to  resist.  And 
among  the  inhabitants  of  Dumfries  and  its  vi- 
cinity, there  w'ere  never  wanting  persons  to 
share  his  social  pleasures  ; to  lead  or  accompa- 
ny him  to  the  tavern ; to  partake  in  the  wild- 
est sallies  of  his  wit ; to  witness  the  strength 
and  the  degradation  of  his  genius. 

Still,  however,  he  cultivated  the  society  of 
persons  of  taste  and  respectability,  and  in  their 
company  could  impose  on  himself  the  restraints 
of  temperance  and  decorum.  Nor  was  his 
muse  dormant.  In  the  four  years  which  he 
lived  in  Dumfries,  he  produced  many  of  his 
beautiful  lyrics,  though  it  does  not  appear  that 
he  attempted  any  poem  of  considerable  length. 

♦ See  No.  LXXX  VIII. 


During  this  time  he  made  several  excursions 
into  the  neighboring  country,  of  one  of  which, 
through  Galloway,  an  account  is  preserved  in 
a letter  of  Mr.  Syme,  written  soon  after ; which, 
as  it  gives  an  animated  picture  of  him,  by  a 
correct  and  masterly  hand,  we  shall  present  to 
the  reader. 

“ I got  Burns  a gray  Highland  shelly  to  ride 
on.  We  dined  the  first  day,  27ih  July,  1793, 
at  Glendenwynes  of  Barton  ! a beautiful  situa- 
tion on  the  banks  of  the  Dee.  In  the  evening 
we  walked  out,  and  ascended  a gentle  eminence, 
from  which  we  had  as  fine  a view  of  Alpine 
scenery  as  can  well  be  imagined.  A delightful 
soft  evening  showed  all  its  wilder  as  well  as 
grander  graces.  Immediately  opposite,  and 
within  a mile  of  us,  we  saw  Airds,  a charm- 
ing romantic  place,  where  dwelt  Low,  the  au- 
thor of  Mary  weep  no  more  for  me*  This  was 
classical  ground  for  Burns.  He  viewed  “ the 
highest  hill  which  rises  o’er  the  source  of  Dee 
and  would  have  staid  till  “the  passing  spirit” 
had  appeared,  had  we  not  resolved  to  reach 
Kenmore  that  night.  We  arrived  as  Mr.  and 
Mrs  Gordon  were  sitting  down  to  supper. 

“ Here  is  a genuine  baron’s  seat.  The  cas- 
tle, an  old  building,  stands  on  a large  natural 
moat.  In  front,  the  river  Ken  winds  for  sever- 
al miles  through  the  most  fertile  and  beautiful 
holm, t till  it  expands  into  a lake  twelve  miles 
long,  the  banks  of  which,  on  the  south,  present 
a fine  and  soft  landscape  of  green  knolls,  natur- 
al wood,  and  here  and  there  a gray  rock.  On 
the  north,  the  aspect  is  great,  wild,  and,  I may 
say,  tremendous.  In  short,  I can  scarcely  con- 
ceive a scene  more  terribly  romantic  than  the 
castle  of  Kenmore.  Burns  thinks  so  highly  of 
it,  that  he  meditates  a description  of  it  in  poet- 
ry. Indeed,  I believe  he  has  begun  the  work. 
We  spent  three  days  with  Mr.  Gordon,  whose 
polished  hospitality  is  of  an  original  and  endear- 
ing kind.  Mrs.  Gordon’s  lap-dog,  Ecko,  was 
dead.  She  would  have  an  epitaph  for  him.  Sev- 
eral had  been  made.  Burns  was  asked  for  one. 
This  was  setting  Hercules  to  his  distaff.  He 
disliked  the  subject ; but  to  please  the  lady  he 
would  try.  Here  is  what  he  produced  : — 

“In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng, 

Your  heavy  loss  deplore  ! 

Now  half  extinct  your  powers  of  song, 

Sweet  echo  is  no  more. 

Ye  jarring,  screeching  things  around, 

Scream  your  discordant  joys  ! 

Now  half  your  din  of  tuneless  song 
With  Echo  silent  lies.” 

“We  left  Kenmore,  and  went  to  Gatehouse. 
I took  him  the  moor-road,  where  savage  and 
desolate  regions  extended  wide  around.  The 
sky  was  sympathetic  with  the  wretchedness  of 
the  soil ; it  became  lowering  and  dark.  The 
hollow  winds  sighed,  the  lightnings  gleamed, 
the  thunder  rolled.  The  poet  enjoyed  the  aw- 

*A  beautiful  and  well-known  ballad,  which  begins 
thus  : — 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill, 
Which  rises  o’er  the  source  of  Dee, 

And,  from  the  eastern  summit,  shed 
Its  silver  light  on  tower  and  tree. 

fThe  level  low  ground  on  the  banks  of  a river  or 
stream.  This  word  should  be  adopted  from  the  Scot- 
tish, as,  indeed  ought  several  others  of  the  same  na- 
ture. That  dialect  is  singularly  copious  and  exact 
in  the  denominations  of  natural  objects.  E. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ful  scene — he  spoke  not  a word,  but  seemed 
wrapt  in  meditation.  In  a little  while  the  rain 
began  to  fall ; it  poured  in  floods  upon  us.  For 
three  hours  did  the  wild  elements  rumble  their 
belly  full  upon  our  defenceless  heads.  Oh!  Oh! 
* t was  foul.  We  got  utterly  wet ; and  to  re- 
venge ourselves,  Burns  insisted  at  Gatehouse 
on  our  getting  utterly  drunk. 

“From  Gatehouse,  we  went  next  day  to 
Kirkcudbright,  through  a fine  country.  But 
here  I must  tell  you  that  Burns  had  got  a pair 
of  jemmy  boots  for  the  journey,  which  had  been 
thoroughly  wet,  and  which  had  been  dried  in 
such  a manner  that  it  was  not  possible  to  get 
them  on  again.  The  brawny  poet  tried  force, 
and  tore  them  to  shreds.  A whiffling  vexation 
of  this  sort  is  more  trying  to  the  temper  than  a 
serious  calamity.  We  were  going  to  St.  Ma- 
ry's Isle,  the  seat  of  the  Earl  of  Selkirk,  and 
the  forlorn  Burns  was  discomfited  at  the  thought 
of  his  ruined  boots.  A sick  stomach,  and  a 
head-ache,  lent  their  aid,  and  the  man  of  verse 
was  quite  accable'.  I attempted  to  reason  with 
him.  Mercy  on  us  ! how  he  did  fume  with 
rage  ! Nothing  could  reinstate  him  in  temper. 
I tried  various  expedients,  and  at  last  hit  on  one 
that  succeeded.  I showed  him  the  house  of  * * *, 
across  the  bay  of  Wigton.  Against*  * *,  with 
whom  he  was  offended,  he  expectorated  his 
spleen,  and  regained  a most  agreeable  temper. 
He  was  in  a most  epigrammatic  humor  indeed  ! 
He  afterwards  fell  on  humbler  game.  There  is 
one  * * *,  whom  he  does  not  love.  He  had  a 
passing  blow  at  him  : — 

When . deceased,  to  the  devil  went  down, 

’T  was  nothing  would  serve  him  but  Satan's  own 
crown  : 

Thy  fool’s  head,  quoth  Satan,  that  crown  shall  wear 
never, 

I grant  thou  ’rt  as  wicked,  but  not  quite  so  clever.” 

“ Well,  I am  to  bring  you  to  Kirkcudbright 
along  with  our  poet,  without  boots.  I carried 
the  torn  ruins  across  my  saddle  in  spite  of  his 
fulminations,  and  in  contempt  of  appearances ; 
and  what  is  more,  Lord  Selkirk  carried  them 
in  his  coach  to  Dumfries.  He  insisted  they 
were  worth  mending. 

“We  reached  Kirkcudbright  about  1 o’clock. 
I had  promised  that  we  should  dine  with  one 
of  the  first  men  in  our  country,  J.  Dalzell.  But 
Burns  was  in  a wild  obstreperous  humor,  and 
swore  he  would  not  dine  where  he  should  be 
under  the  smallest  restraint.  We  prevailed, 
therefore,  on  Mr.  Dalzell  to  dine  with  us  in  the 
inn,  and  had  a very  agreeable  party.  In  the 
evening  we  set  out  for  St.  Mary’s  Isle.  Rob- 
ert had  not  absolutely  regained  the  milkiness 
of  good  temper,  and  it  occurred  once  or  twice 
to  him,  as  we  rode  along,  that  St.  Mary’s  Isle 
was  the  seat  of  a Lord  ; yet  that  Lord  was  not 
an  aristocrat,  at  least  in  the  sense  of  the  word. 
We  arrived  about  eight  o'clock,  as  the  family 
were  at  tea  and  coffee.  St.  Mary’s  Isle  is  one 
of  the  most  delightful  places  that  can,  in  my 
opinion,  be  formed  by  the  assemblage  of  every 
soft,  but  not  tame  object  which  constitutes  na- 
tural and  cultivated  beauty.  But  not  to  dwell 
on  its  external  graces,  let  me  tell  you  that  we 
found  all  the  ladies  of  the  family  (all  beautiful) 
at  home,  and  some  strangers;  and  among  oth- 
ers, who  but  Urbani ! The  Italian  sung  us  ma- 
ny Scottish  songs,  accompanied  with  instru- 
mental music.  The  two  young  ladies  of  Sel- 


197 

kirk  sung  also.  We  had  the  song  of  Lord 
Gregory,  which  I asked  lor,  to  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  calling  on  Burns  to  recite  his  ballad 
to  that  tune.  He  did  recite  it ; and  such  was 
the  effect  that  a dead  silence  ensued.  It  was 
such  a silence  as  a mind  of  feeling  naturally 
preserves  when  it  is  touched  with  that  enthusi- 
asm which  banishes  every  other  thought  but  the 
contemplation  and  indulgence  of  the  sympathy 
produced.  Burns’  Lord.  Gregory  is,  in  my 
opinion,  a most  beautiful  and  affecting  ballad. 
The  fastidious  critic  may  perhaps  say  some  of 
the  sentiments  and  imagery  are  of  too  elevated 
a kind  for  such  a style  of  composition  ; for  in- 
stance, “ Thou  bolt  of  heaven  that  passest  by,” 
and,  “Ye,  mustering  thunder,”  &c.,  but  this 
is  a cold-blooded  objection,  which  will  be  said 
rather  than/eZZ. 

“We  enjoyed  a most  happy  evening  at  Lord 
Selkirk’s.  We  had,  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  a feast,  in  which  our  minds  and  our 
senses  were  equally  gratified.  The  poet  was 
delighted  with  his  company,  and  acquitted  him- 
self to  admiration.  The  lion  that  had  raged  so 
violently  in  the  morning,  was  now  mild  and 
gentle  as  a lamb.  Next  day  we  returned  to 
Dumfries,  and  so  ends  our  peregrination.  I 
told  you,  that  in  the  midst  of  the  storm,  on  the 
wilds  of  Kenmore,  Burns  was  wrapt  in  medi- 
tation. What  do  you  think  he  was  about  ? He 
was  charging  the  English  army  along  with 
Bruce,  at  Bannockburn.  He  was  engaged  in 
the  same  manner  on  our  ride  home  from  St. 
Mary’s  Isle,  and  I did  not  disturb  him.  Next 
day  he  produced  me  the  following  address  of 
Bruce  to  his  troops,  and  gave  me  a copy  for 
Dalzell.” 

“ Scots  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled,”  &c. 

Burns  had  entertained  hopes  of  promotion  in 
the  excise  ; but  circumstances  occurred  which 
retarded  their  fulfillment,  and  which,  in  his  own 
mind,  destroyed  all  expectation  of  their  ever 
being  fulfilled.  The  extraordinary  events  which 
ushered  in  the  revolution  of  France,  interested 
the  feelings,  and  excited  the  hopes  of  men  in 
every  corner  of  Europe.  Prejudice  and  tyran- 
ny seemed  about  to  disappear  from  among  men, 
and  the  day-star  of  reason  to  rise  upon  a be- 
nighted world.  In  the  dawn  of  this  beautiful 
morning,  the  genius  of  French  freedom  appear- 
ed on  our  southern  horizon  with  the  counte- 
nance of  an  angel,  but  speedily  assumed  the 
features  of  a demon,  and  vanished  in  a shower 
of  blood. 

Though  previously  a Jacobite  and  a cavalier, 
Burns  had  shared  in  the  original  hopes  enter- 
tained of  this  astonishing  revolution,  by  ardent 
and  benevolent  minds.  The  novelty  and  the 
hazard  of  the  attempt  meditated  by  the  First, 
or  Constituent  Assembly,  served  rather,  it  is 
probable,  to  recommend  it  to  his  daring  temper ; 
and  the  unfettered  scope  proposed  to  be  given 
to  every  kind  of  talents,  was  doubtless  gratifying 
to  the  feelings  of  conscious  but  indignant  genius. 
Burns  foresaw  not  the  mighty  ruin  that  was  to 
be  the  immediate  consequence  of  an  enterprise, 
which,  on  its  commencement,  promised  so  much 
happiness  to  the  human  race.  And  even  after 
the  career  of  guilt  and  of  blood  had  commenc- 
ed, he  could  not  immediately,  it  may  be  pre- 
sumed, withdraw  his  partial  gaze  from  a peo- 
ple who  had  so  lately  breathed  the  sentiments 


198 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


of  universal  peace  and  benignity  ; or  obliterate 
in  his  bosom  the  pictures  of  hope  and  of  hap- 
piness to  which  those  sentiments  had  given 
birth.  Under  these  impressions,  he  did  not  al- 
ways conduct  himself  with  the  circumspection 
and  prudence  which  his  dependent  situation 
seemed  to  demand.  He  engaged  indeed  in  no 
popular  associations,  so  common  at  the  time  of 
which  we  speak  : but  in  company  he  did  not 
conceal  his  opinions  of  public  measures,  or  of 
the  reforms  required  in  the  practice  of  our  gov- 
ernment ; and  sometimes  in  his  social  and  un- 
guarded moments,  he  uttered  them  with  a wild 
and  unjustifiable  vehemence.  Information  of 
this  was  given  to  the  Board  of  Excise,  with  the 
exaggerations  so  general  in  such  cases.  A su- 
perior officer  in  that  department  was  authorized 
to  inquire  into  his  conduct.  Burns  defended 
himself  in  a letter  addressed  to  one  of  the 
Board,  written  with  great  independence  of 
spirit,  and  with  more  than  his  accustomed  elo- 
quence. The  officer  appointed  to  inquire  into 
his  conduct  gave  a favorable  report.  His  stea- 
dy friend,  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry,  interposed 
his  good  offices  in  his  behalf ; and  the  impru- 
dent gauger  was  suffered  to  retain  his  situation, 
but  given  to  understand  that  his  promotion  was 
deferred,  and  must  depend  on  his  future  behav- 
ior. 

“ This  circumstance  made  a deep  impression 
on  the  mind  of  Burns.  Fame  exaggerated  his 
misconduct,  and  represented  him  as  actually  dis- 
missed from  his  office  ; and  this  report  induced 
a gentleman  of  much  respectability  to  propose 
a subscription  in  his  favor.  The  offer  was  re- 
fused by  our  poet  in  a letter  of  great  elevation 
of  sentiment,  in  which  he  gives  an  account  of 
the  whole  of  this  transaction,  and  defends  him- 
self from  the  imputaiion  of  disloyal  sentiments 
on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other,  from  the 
charge  of  having  made  submissions  for  the  sake 
of  his  office,  unworthy  of  his  character. 

“ The  partiality  of  my  countrymen,”  he  ob- 
serves, has  brought  me  forward  as  a man  of 
genius,  and  has  given  me  a character  to  sup- 
port. In  the  poet  I have  avowed  manly  and 
independent  sentiments,  which  I hope  have 
been  found  in  the  man.  Reasons  of  no  less 
weight  than  the  support  of  a wife  and  children, 
have  pointed  out  my  present  occupation  as  the 
only  eligible  line  of  life  within  my  reach.  Still 
my  honest  fame  is  my  dearest  concern,  and  a 
thousand  times  have  I trembled  at  the  idea  of 
the  degrading  epithets  that  malice  and  misrep- 
resentation may  affix  to  my  name.  Often  in 
blasting  anticipation  have  I listened  to  some 
future  hackney-scribbler,  with  the  heavy  mal- 
ice of  savage  stupidity,  exultingly  asserting 
that  Burns,  notwithstanding  the  fanfaronnade 
of  independence  to  be  found  in  his  works,  and 
after  having  been  held  up  to  public  view,  and 
to  public  estimation,  as  a man  of  some  genius, 
yet,  quite  destitute  of  resources  to  support  his 
borrowed  dignity,  dwindled  into  a paltry  ex- 
ciseman, and  slunk  out  the  rest  of  his  insignif- 
icant existence  in  the  meanest  of  pursuits,  and 
among  the  lowest  of  mankind. 

“In  your  illustrious  hands,  Sir,  permit  me 
to  lodge  my  strong  disavowal  and  defiance  of 
such  slanderous  falsehoods.  Burns  was  a poor 
man  from  his  birth,  and  an  exciseman  by  neces- 
sity ; but — 1 will  say  it ! the  sterling  of  his  hon- 
est worth  poverty  could  not  debase,  and  his 


independent  British  spirit,  oppression  might 
bend,  but  could  not  subdue.” 

It  was  one  of  the  last  acts  of  his  life  to  copy 
this  letter  into  his  book  of  manuscripts,  accom- 
panied by  some  additional  remarks  on  the  same 
subject.  It  is  not  surprising,  that  at  a season 
of  universal  alarm  for  the  safety  of  the  consti- 
tution, the  indiscreet  expressions  of. a man  so 
powerful  as  Burns,  should  have  attracted  no- 
tice. The  times  certainly  required  extraordi- 
nary vigilance  in  those  intrusted  with  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  government,  and  to  ensure 
the  safety  of  the  constitution  was  doubtless 
their  first  duty.  Yet  generous  minds  will  la- 
ment that  their  measures  of  precaution  should 
have  robbed  the  imagination  of  our  poet  of  the 
last  prop  on  which  his  hopes  of  independence 
rested  ; and  by  embittering  his  peace,  have  ag- 
gravated those  excesses  which  were  soon  to 
conduct  him  to  an  untimely  grave. 

Though  the  vehemence  of  Burns’  temper, 
increased  as  it  often  was  by  stimulating  liquors, 
might  lead  him  into  many  improper  and  un- 
guarded expressions,  there  seems  no  reason 
to  doubt  of  his  attachment  to  our  mixed  form 
of  government.  In  his  common-place  book, 
where  he  could  have  no  temptation  to  disguise, 
are  the  following  sentiments: — “ Whatever 
might  be  my  sentiments  of  republics,  ancient 
or  modern,  as  to  Britain,  I ever  abjured  the 
idea.  A constitution,  which  in  its  original 
principles,  experience  has  proved  to  be  every 
way  fitted  for  our  happiness,  it  would  be  insan- 
ity to  abandon  for  an  untried  visionary  theory.1’ 
In  conformity  to  these  sentiments,  when  the 
pressing  nature  of  public  affairs  called,  in  1795, 
for  a general  arming  of  the  people,  Burns  ap- 
peared in  the  ranks  of  the  Dumfries  volunteers, 
and  employed  his  poetical  talents  in  stimulating 
their  patriotism  ;*  and  at  this  season  of  alarm, 
he  brought  forward  a hymn  t worthy  of  the 
Grecian  muse,  when  Greece  was  most  conspic- 
uous for  genius  and  valor. 

Though  by  nature  of  an  athletic  form,  Burns 
had  in  his  constitution  the  peculiarities  and  deli- 
cacies that  belong  to  the  temperament  of  genius. 
He  was  liable,  from  a very  eraly  period  of  life, 
to  that  interruption  in  the  process  of  digestion, 
which  arises  from  deep  and  anxious  ihought, 
and  which  is  sometimes  the  effect  and  some- 
times the  cause  of  depression  of  spirits.  Con- 
nected with  this  disorder  of  the  stomach,  there 
was  a disposition  to  head-ache,  affecting  more 
especially  the  temples  and  eye-balls,  and  fre- 
quently accompanied  by  violent  and  irregular 
movements  of  the  heart.  Endowed  by  nature 
with  great  sensibility  of  nerves,  Burns  was,  in 
his  corporeal,  as  well  as  in  his  mental  system, 
liable  to  inordinate  impressions;  to  fever  of  bo- 
dy as  well  as  of  mind.  This  predisposition  to 
disease,  which  with  strict  temperance  in  diet, 
regular  exercise,  and  sound  sleep,  might  have 
* See  poem  entitled  The  Dumfiies  Volunteers. 
f The  Song  of  Death.  Poems,  p.  62.  This  poem 
was  written  in  1791.  It  was  printed  in  Johnson's 
Musical  Museum.  The  poet  had  an  intention,  in  the 
latter  part  of  his  life,  of  printing  it  separately,  set 
to  music,  1 ut  was  advised  against  it,  or  at  least  dis- 
couraged from  it.  The  ntaitial  ardor  which  rose  so 
high  afterwaids,  on  the  threatened  invasion,  had 
not  then  acquired  the  tone  necessary  to  g ve  popu- 
larity to  this  noble  poem;  which,  to  the  Ed. tor, 
seems  more  calculated  to  invigorate  the  spirit  of 
defence,  in  a season  of  real  and  pressing  danger, 
than  any  production  of  modern  times. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


199 


subdued,  habits  of  a very  different  nature 
strengthened  and  inflamed.  Perpetually  stim- 
ulated by  alcohol  in  one  or  other  of  its  various 
forms,  the  inordinate  actions  of  the  circulating 
system  became  at  length  habitual ; the  process 
of  nutrition  was  unable  to  support  the  waste, 
and  the  powers  of  life  began  to  fail.  Upwards 
of  a year  before  his  death,  there  was  an  evident 
decline  in  our  poet’s  personal  appearance,  and 
though  his  appetite  continued  unimpaired,  he 
was  himself  sensible  that  his  constitution  was 
sinking.  In  his  moments  of  thought  he  reflect- 
ed with  the  deepest  regret  on  his  fatal  progress, 
clearly  foreseeing  the  goal  towards  which  he 
was  Hastening,  without  the  strength  of  mind 
necessary  to  stop,  or  even  to  slacken  his  course. 
Ilis  temper  now  became  more  irritable  and 
gloomy  ; he  fled  from  himself  into  society, 
often  of  the  lowest  kind.  And  in  such  compa- 
ny, that  part  of  the  convivial  scene,  in  which 
wine  increases  sensibility  and  excites  benevo- 
lence, was  hurried  over,  to  reach  the  succeeding 
part,  over  which  uncontrolled  passion  generally 
presided.  He  who  suffers  the  pollution  of  ine- 
briation, how  shall  he  escape  other  pollution  ? 
But  let  us  refrain  from  the  mention  of  errors 
over  which  delicacy  and  humanity  draw  the  vail. 

In  the  midst  of  all  his  wanderings,  Burns 
met  nothing  in  his  domestic  circle  but  gentle- 
ness and  forgiveness,  except  in  the  gnawings  of 
his  own  remorse.  He  acknowledged  his  trans- 
gressions to  the  wile  of  his  bosom,  promised 
amendment,  and  again  and  again  received  par- 
don for  his  offences.  But  as  the  strength  of 
his  body  decayed,  his  resolution  became  feebler, 
and  habit  acquired  predominating  strength. 

From  October,  1795,  to  the  January  follow- 
ing, an  accidental  complaint  confined  him  to  his 
house.  A lew  days  after  he  began  to  go 
abroad,  he  dined  at  a tavern,  and  returned 
home  about  three  o’clock  in  a very  cold  morn- 
ing, benumbed  and  intoxicated.  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  an  attack  of  rheumatism,  which  con* 
fined  him  about  a week.  His  appetite  now 
began  to  fail ; his  hand  shook,  and  his  voice 
faltered  on  any  exertion  or  emotion.  His  pulse 
became  weaker  and  more  rapid,  and  pain  in  the 
larger  joints,  and  in  the  hands  and  feet,  depriv- 
ed him  of  the  enjoyment  of  refreshing  sleep. 
'I’oo  much  dejected  in  his  spirits,  and  too  well 
aware  of  his  real  situation  to  entertain  hopes 
of  recovery,  he  was  ever  musing  on  the  ap- 
proaching desolation  of  his  family,  and  his  spi- 
rits sunk  into  a uniform  gloom. 

It  was  hoped  by  some  of  his  friends,  that  if 
he  could  live  through  the  months  of  spring,  the 
succeeding  season  might  restore  him.  But 
they  were  disappointed.  The  genial  beams  of 
the  sun  infused  no  vigor  into  his  languid 
frame:  the  summer  wind  blew  upon  him,  but 
produced  no  refreshment.  About  the  latter  end 
of  June  he  was  advised  to  go  into  the  country, 
and  impatient  of  medical  advice,  as  well  as 
of  every  species  of  control,  he  determined  for 
himself  to  try  the  effects  of  bathing  in  the  sea. 
For  this  purpose  he  took  up  his  residence  at 
Brow,  in  Annandale,  about  ten  miles  east  of 
Dumfries,  on  the  shore  of  the  Solway-Firth. 

It  happened  that  at  that  lime  a lady  with  whom 
he  had  been  connected  in  friendship  by  the 
sympathies  of  kindred  genius,  was  residing  in 
the  immediate  neighborhood.*  Being  informed 
•For  a character  of  this  lady,  see  letter,  No.  CXXIX. 


I of  his  arrival,  she  invited  him  to  dinner,  and 
rsent  her  carriage  for  him  to  the  cottage  where 
he  lodged,  as  he  wras  unable  to  walk. — “ I was 
struck,”  says  this  lady  (in  a confidential  letter 
to  a friend  written  soon  after,)  ‘‘  with  his  appear- 
ance on  entering  the  room.  The  stamp  ol  death 
was  imprinted  on  his  features.  He  seemed  al- 
ready touching  the  brink  of  eternity.  His  first 
salutation  was,  ‘ Well,  Madam,  have  you  any 
commands  for  the  other  world  ?’  I replied,  that 
it  seemed  a doubtlul  case  which  of  us  should  be 
there  soonest,  and  that  1 hoped  he  wmuld  yet 
live  to  w rite  my  epitaph.  (I  was  then  in  a bad 
state  of  health.)  He  looked  in  my  face  with  an 
air  of  great  kindness,  and  expressed  his  con- 
cern at  seeing  me  look  so  ill,  with  his  accus- 
tomed sensibility.  At  table  he  ate  little  or  noth- 
ing, and  he  complained  of  having  lost  the  tone 
of  his  stomach.  We  had  a long  and  serious 
conversation  about  his  present  situation,  and  the 
approaching  termination  of  all  his  earthly  pros- 
pects. He  spoke  of  his  death  without  any  of  the 
ostentation  of  philosophy,  but  with  firmness  as 
well  as  feeling,  as  an  event  likely  to  happen 
very  soon  ; and  which  gave  him  concern  chiefly 
from  leaving  his  four  children  so  young  and  un- 
protected, and  his  wife  in  so  interesting  a situa- 
tion— in  hourly  expectation  of  lying  in  of  a fifth. 
He  mentioned,  with  seeming  pride  and  satisfac- 
tion, the  promising  genius  of  his  eldest  son,  and 
the  flattering  marks  of  approbation  he  had  re- 
ceived from  his  teachers,  and  dwelt  particularly 
on  his  hopes  of  that  boy’s  future  conduct  and 
merit.  His  anxiety  for  his  family  seemed  to 
hang  heavy  upon  him,  and  the  more  perhaps 
from  the  reflection  that  he  had  not  done  them 
all  the  justice  he  was  so  well  qualified  to  do. 
Passing  from  this  subject,  he  showed  great  con- 
cern about  the  care  of  his  literary  fame,  and 
particularly  the  publication  of  his  posthumous 
works.  lie  said  that  he  was  well  aware  that 
his  death  would  occasion  some  little  noise,  and 
that  every  scrap  of  his  writing  would  be  revived 
against  him  to  the  injury  ol  his  future  reputa- 
tion ; that  letters  and  verses  written  with  un- 
guarded and  improper  freedom,  and  which  he 
earnestly  w'ished  to  have  buried  in  oblivion, 
would  be  handed  about  by  idle  vanity  or  mal- 
evolence, when  no  dread  of  his  resentment  would 
restrain  them,  or  prevent  the  censures  of  shrill- 
tongued  malice,  or  the  insidious  sarcasms  of  en- 
vy, from  pouring  forth  all  their  venom  to  blast 
his  fame. 

‘‘  He  lamented  that  he  had  written  many  ep- 
igrams on  persons  against  whom  he  entertained 
no  enmity,  and  whose  characters  he  would  be 
sorry  to  wound ; and  many  indifferent  poetical 
pieces,  which  he  feared  wmuld  now,  with  all 
their  imperfections  on  their  head,  be  thrust  up- 
on the  world.  On  this  account  he  deeply  re- 
gretted having  deferred  to  put  his  papers  in  a 
state  of  arrangement,  as  he  was  now  quite  inca- 
pable of  the  exertion.” — The  lady  goes  on  to 
mention  many  other  topics  of  a private  nature 
on  which  he  spoke. — “ The  conversation,”  she 
adds,  ‘‘was  kept  up  with  great  evenness  and 
animation  on  his  side.  1 had  seldom  seen  his 
mind  greater  or  more  collected.  There  was 
frequently  a considerable  degree  of  vivacity  in 
his  sallies,  and  they  would  probably  have  had 
a greater  share,  had  not  the  concern  and  dejec- 
tion I could  not  disguise,  damped  the  spirit  of 
pleasantry  he  seemed  not  unwilling  to  indulge. 


200 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


We  parted  about  sunset  on  the  evening  of 
that  day  (t lie  5th  July,  1796  ;)  the  next  day  I 
saw  him  again,  and  we  parted  to  meet  no 
more  !” 

At  first  Burns  imagined  bathing  in  the  sea  had 
been  of  benefit  to  him  : the  pains  in  his  limbs 
were  relieved  ; but  this  was  immediately  fol- 
lowed by  a new  attack  of  fever.  When  brought 
back  to  his  own  house  in  Dumfries,  on  the  18th 
of  July,  he  was  no  longer  able  to  stand  upright. 
At  tins  time  a tremor  pervaded  his  frame:  his 
tongue  was  parched,  and  his  mind  sunk  into 
delirium,  when  not  roused  by  conversation. 
On  the  second  and  third  day  the  fever  increas- 
i ’ anihi.s  stren?th  diminished.  On  the  fourth 
the  sufferings  o(  this  great  but  ill-fated  genius 
were  terminated ; and  a life  was  closed  in  which 
virtue  and  passion  had  been  at  perpetual  va- 
riance.* 

I he  death  of  Burns  made  a strong  and  gen- 
eral impression  on  all  who  had  interested  them- 
selves in  his  character,  and  especially  on  the 
inhabitants  of  the  town  and  county  in  which  he 
had  spent  ; he  latter  years  of  his  life.  Flagrant 
as  his  follies  and  errors  had  been,  they  had  not 
depiived  him  of  the  respect  and  regard  enter- 
tained for  the  extraordinary  powers  of  his  gen- 
ius, and  the  generous  qualities  of  his  heart.  The 
Gentleman- Volunteers  of  Dumfries  determined 
to  bury  their  illustrious  associate  with  military 
honors,  and  every  preparation  was  made  to  ren- 
der this  last  service  solemn  and  impressive.  The 
t encible  Infantry  of  Angusshire,  and'the  regi- 
ment of  cavalry  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  at  that 
time  quartered  in  Dumfries,  offered  their  as- 
sistance on  this  occasion  ; the  principal  inhabi- 
tants of  the  town  and  neighborhood  determined 
to  walk  in  the  funeral  procession  ; and  a vast 
concourse  of  persons  assembled,  some  of  them 
from  a considerable  distance,  to  witness  the  ob- 
sequies of  the  Scottish  Bard.  On  the  evenino- 
of  the  25th  of  July,  the  remains  of  Burns  were 
removed  from  his  house  to  the  Town-Hall,  and 
the  funeral  took  place  on  the  succeeding  day. 
A party  of  the  volunteers,  ^elected  to  perform 
the  military  duty  m the  clmrcffyard,  stationed 
themselves  in  the  front  ot  the  procession,  with 
their  arms  reversed;  the  main  body  of  the  corps 
surrounded  and  supported  the  coffin,  on  which 
were  placed  the  hat  and  sword  of  their  friend 
and  fellow-soldier;  the  numerous  body  of  at- 
tendants ranged  themselves  in  the  rear;  while 
the  Fencible  regiments  of  infantry  and  cavalry 
lined  the  streets  from  the  Town-Hall  to  the  bur- 
ial ground  in  the  Southern  church-yard,  a dis- 
tance of  more  than  half  a mile.  The  whole 
.procession  moved  forward  to  that  sublime  and 
affecting  strain  of  music,  the  Dead  JMarch  in 
Saul;  and  three  volleys  fired  over  his  grave, 
marked  the  return  of  Burns  to  his  parent  earth  ! 
i he  spectacle  was  in  a high  degree  grand  and 
solemn,  and  accorded  with  tiiegeneral  sentiments 
of  sympathy  and  sorrow  which  the  occasion  had 
called  forth. 

It  was  an  affecting  circumstance,  that,  on  the 
morning  of  the  day  of  her  husband’s  funeral, 
Mrs.  Burns  was  undergoing  the  pains  of  labor  ; 
and  that  during  the  solemn  service  we  have  just 
been  describing,  the  posthumous  son  of  our  poet 
was  born.  1 his  infant  boy,  who  received  the 

*15ie  particulars  respecting  the  i'fness  and  death 
ef  Burns  were  obligingly  furnished  by  Dr. Maxwell, 
'the  physician  who  attended  him. 


’ r?merr°f  ^axwei*’  wos  not  destined  to  a long 
lite.  He  has  already  become  an  inhabitant  of 
the  same  grave  with  his  celebrated  father.  The 
tour  other  children. of  our  poet,  all  sons,  (the 
eldest  at  that  time  about  ten  years  of  age)  yet 
survive,  and  give  every  promise  of  prudence  and 
virtue  that  can  be  expected  from  their  tender 
years;  I hey  remain  under  the  care  of  their 
afieciionate  mother  in  Dumfries,  and  are  enjoy- 
ing the  means  of  education  which  the  excellent 
schools  of  that  town  afford;  the  teachers  of  which 
in  their  conduct  to  the  children  of  Burns  do 
themselves  great  honor.  On  this  occasion  the 
name  of  Mr.  Wythe  deserves  to  be  particularly 
mentioned,  himself  a poet,  as  well  as  a man  of 
science.* 

Burns  died  in  great  poverty  ; but  the  inde- 
pendence of  his  spirit  and  the  exemplary  pru- 
dence of  his  wife,  had  preserved  him  from  debt. 
He  had  received  from  his  poems  a clear  profit 
of  about  nine  hundred  pounds.  Of  this  sum 
the  part  expended  on  his  library  (which  was 
ai  .°m  extensive)  and  in  the  humble  furniture 
of  his  house,  remained  ; and  obligations  were 
found  for  two  hundred  pounds  advanced  by  him 
to  t‘‘e  assistance  of  those  to  whom  he  was  uni- 
ted by  the  ties  of  blood,  and  still  more  by  those 
of  esteem  and  affection.  When  it  is  considered 
that  his  expenses  in  Edinburgh,  and  on  his  va- 
rious journeys,  could  not  be  inconsiderable;  that 
his  agricultural  undertaking  was  unsuccessful: 
that  his  income  from  the  excise  was  for  some 
time  as  low  as  fifty,  and  never  arose  to  above  sev- 
enty  pounds  a-year  ; that  his  family  was  large, 
and  his  spirit  liberal— no  one  will  be  surprised 
that  his  circumstances  were  so  poor,  or  that  as 
his  health  decayed  his  proud  and  feeling  heart 
sunk  under  the  secret  consciousness  of  indigence 
and  the  apprehensions  of  absolute  want.  Yet 
poveity  never  bent  the  spirit  of  Burns  to  any  pe- 
cuniary meanness.  N either  chicanery  nor  sordid- 
ness ever  appeared  in  his  conduct.  He  carried 
his  disregard  of  money  to  a blamable  excess. 

, Y?n  in  “ie  midst  of  distress  he  bore  himself 
loftily  to  the  world,  and  received  with  jealous  re 
luctance  every  offer  of  friendly  assistance.  His 
punted  poems  had  procured  him  great  celebrity, 
and  a just  and  fair  recompense  for  the  latter  off- 
springs of  his  pen  might  have  produced  him 
considerable  emolument.  In  the  year  1795,  the 
Editor  of  a London  newspaper,  high  in  its  char- 
acter for  literature,  and  independence  of  senti- 
ment, made  a proposal  to  him  that  he  should  fur- 
nish them,  once  a week,  with  an  article  for  their 
poetical  department,  and  receive  from  them  a 
recompense  of  fifty-two  guineas  per  annum  ; an 
offer  which  the  pride  of  genius  refused  to  accept. 
Yet  he  had  for  several  years  furnished,  and  was 
at  that  time  furnishing,  the  Museum  of  Johnson 
with  his  beautiful  lyrics,  without  fee  or  reward, 
and  was  obstinately  refusing  all  recompense  for 
his  assistance  to  the  greater  work  of  Mr.  Thom- 
son, which  the  justice  and  generosity  of  that 
gentleman  was  pressing  upon  him. 

1 he  sense  of  his  poverty,  and  of  the  ap- 
proaching distress  of  his  infant  family,  pressed 
heavily  on  Burns  as  he  lay  on  the  bed  of  death. 
Yet  he  alluded  to  his  indigence,  at  limes,  with 
something  approaching  to  his  wonted  gayety. 
“What  business,”  said  he  to  Dr.  Maxwell’ 
who  attended  him  with  the  utmost  zeal,  “ has 

* Author  of  “ Ft.  Guerdon’s  Well,”  a poem;  and 
of  ‘‘A  tribute  to  the  Memory  of  Burns.” 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


* a physician  to  waste  his  time  on  me  ? I am  a 
poor  pigeon,  not  worth  plucking.  Alas  ! I 
have  not  leathers  enough  upon  me  to  carry  me 
to  my  grave.”  And  when  his  reason  was  lost 
in  delirium,  his  ideas  ran  in  the  same  melancho- 
ly train  ; the  horrors  of  a jail  were  continually 
present  to  his  troubled  imagination,  and  pro- 
duced the  most  affecting  exclamations. 

As  tor  some  months  previous  to  his  death  he 
had  been  incapable  of  the  duties  of  his  office, 
Burns  dreaded  that  his  salary  should  be  reduc- 
ed one  half,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases.  His  full 
emoluments  were,  however,  continued  to  him 
by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Stobbie,  a young  ex- 
pectant in  the  Excise,  who  performed  the  du- 
ties of  his  office  without  fee  or  reward  ; and  Mr. 
Graham,  of  Fintry,  hearing  of  hisillness,  though 
unacquainted  with  its  dangerous  nature,  made 
an  offer  of  his  assistance  towards  procuring 
him  the  means  of  preserving  his  health.  What- 
ever might  be  the  faults  of  Burns,  ingratitude 
was  not  of  the  number.  Amongst  his  manu- 
scripts. various  proofs  are  found  of  the  sense  he 
entertained  of  Air  Graham’s  friendship,  which 
delicacy  towards  that  gentleman  has  induced 
us  to  suppress  ; and  on  this  last  occasion,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  his  heart  overflowed  towards 
him,  though  he  had  no  longer  the  power  of  ex- 
pressing his  feelings.* 

On  the  death  of  Burns,  the  inhabitants  of 
Dumfries  and  its  neighborhood  opened  a sub- 
scription for  the  support  of  his  wife  and  fami- 
ly ; and  Mr.  Miller,  Mr.  M’Murdo,  Dr.  Max- 
well, Mr.  Syme,  and  Mr.  Cunningham,  gen- 
tlemen of  the  first  respectability,  became  trus- 
tees for  the  application  of  the  money  to  its  pro- 
per objects.  The  subscription  was  extended  to 
other  parts  of  Scotland,  and  of  England  also, 
particularly  London  and  Liverpool.  By  this 
means  a sum  was  raised  amounting  to  seven 
hundred  pounds  ; and  thus  the  widow  and  chil- 
dren were  rescued  from  immediate  distress,  and 
the  most  melancholy  of  the  forebodings  of  Burns 
happily  disappointed.  It  is  true,  this  sum , though 
equal  to  their  present  support,  is  insufficient  to 
secure  them  from  future  penury.  Their  hope 
in  regard  to  futurity  depends  on  the  favorable 
reception  of  these  volumes  from  the  public  at 
large,  in  the  promoting  of  which  the  candor 
and  humanity  of  the  reader  may  induce  him  to 
lend  his  assistance. 

Burns,  as  has  already  been  mentioned,  was 
nearly  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  and  of  a 
form  that  indicated  agility  as  well  as  strength. 
His  well-raised  forehead,  shaded  with  black 
curling  hair,  indicated  extensive  capacity. 
His  eyes  were  large,  dark,  full  of  ardor  and 
intelligence.  His  face  was  well-formed  ; and 
his  countenance  uncommonly  interesting  and 
expressive.  His  mode  of  dressing,  which  was 
often  slovenly,  and  a certain  fullness  and  bend 
in  his  shoulders,  characteristic  of  his  original 
profession,  disguised  in  some  degree  the  natur- 
al symmetry  and  external  elegance  of  his  form. 
The  external  appearance  of  Burns  was  most 
strikingly  indicative  of  the  character  of  his 
mind.  On  a first  view,  his  physiognomy  had 
a certain  air  of  coarseness,  mingled,  however, 
with  an  expression  of  deep  penetration,  and  of 

* The  letter  nf  Mr.  Graham,  alluded  to  above,  is 
dat  ’d  on  the  13th  of  July-  and  probably  arrived  on 
the  15th.  Burns  became  delirious  on  tire  17th  or  Ictli, 
and  died  on  the  21st. 


calm  thoughtfulness,  approaching  to  melancho- 
ly. There  appeared  in  his  first  manner  and 
address,  perfect  ease  and  self-possession,  but  a 
stern  and  almost  supercilious  elevation,  not,  in- 
deed, incompatible  with  openness  and  affability, 
which,  however,  bespoke  a mind  conscious  of 
superior  talents.  Strangers  that  supposed  them- 
selves approaching  an  Ayrshire  peasant  who 
could  make  rhymes,  and  to  whom  their  notice 
was  an  honor,  found  themselves  speedily  over- 
awed by  the  presence  of  a man  who  bore  him- 
self with  dignity,  and  who  possessed  a singu- 
lar power  of  correcting  forwardness,  and  of  re- 
pelling intrusion.  But  though  jealous  of  the 
respect  due  to  himself,  Burns  never  enforced 
it  where  he  saw  it  was  willingly  paid  ; and, 
though  inaccessible  to  the  approaches  of  pride, 
he  was  open  to  every  advance  of  kindness  and 
of  benevolence.  His  dark  and  haughty  coun- 
tenance easily  relaxed  into  a look  of  good-will, 
of  pity,  or  of  tenderness;  and,  as  the  various 
emotions  succeeded  each  other  in  his  mind, 
he  assumed  with  equal  ease  the  expression 
of  the  broadest  humor,  of  the  most  extravagant 
mirth,  of  the  deepest  melancholy,  or  of  the 
most  sublime  emotion.  The  tones  of  his  voice 
happily  corresponded  with  the  expression  of  his 
features,  and  with  the  feelings  of  his  mind. 
When  to  these  endowments  are  added  a rapid 
and  distinct  apprehension,  a most  powerful  un- 
derstanding, and  a happy  command  of  lan- 
guage— of  strength  as  well  as  brilliancy  of  ex- 
pression— we  shall  be  able  to  account  for  the 
extraordinary  attractions  of  his  conversation — 
for  the  sorcery  which,  in  his  social  parties,  he 
seemed  to  exert  on  all  around  him.  In  the 
company  of  women  this  sorcery  was  more  es- 
pecially apparent.  Their  presence  charmed  the 
fiend  of  melancholy  in  his  bosom,  arid  awoke 
his  happiest  feelings  ; it  excited  the  powers  of 
his  fancy,  as  well  as  the  tenderness  of  his  heart ; 
and,  by  restraining  the  vehemence  and  the  ex- 
uberance of  his  language,  at  times  gave  to  his 
manners  the  impression  of  taste,  and  even  of 
elegance,  which,  in  the  company  of  men,  they 
seldom  possessed.  A Scottish  lady,  accus- 
tomed to  the  best  society,  declared,  with  char- 
acteristic naivete,  that  no  man’s  conversation 
ever  carried  her  so  completely  off  her  feet  as  that 
of  Burns;  and  an  English  lady,  familiarly  ac- 
quainted with  several  of  the  most  distinguished 
characters  of  the  present  times,  assured  the 
Editor,  that  in  the  happiest  of  his  social  hours, 
there  was  a charm  about  Burns  which  she  had 
never  seen  equalled.  This  charm  arose  not 
more  from  the  power  than  the  versatility  of 
his  genius.  No  languor  could  be  felt  in  the  so- 
ciety of  a man  who  passed  at  pleasure  from 
grave  to  gay,  from  the  ludicrous  to  the  pathet- 
ic, from  the  simple  to  the  sublime  ; who  wield- 
ed all  his  faculties  with  equal  strength  and  ease, 
and  never  failed  to  impress  the  offspring  of  his 
fancy  with  the  stamp  of  his  understanding. 

This  indeed  is  to  represent  Burns  in  his  hap- 
piest phasis.  In  large  and  mixed  parties  he 
was  often  silent  and  dark,  and  sometimes  fierce 
and  overbearing;  he  was  jealous  of  the  proud 
man’s  scorn,  jealous  to  an  extreme  of  the  inso- 
lence of  wealth,  and  prone  to  avenge,  even  on 
its  innocent  possessor,  the  partiality  of  fortune. 
By  nature  kind,  brave,  sincere,  and  in  a singu- 
lar degree  compassionate,  he  was  on  the  other 
hand  proud,  irrascible,  and  vindictive.  His 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


202 

virtues  and  his  failings  had  their  origin  in  the 
extraordinary  sensibility  of  his  mind,  and 
equally  par  took  of  the  chills  and  glows  of  senti- 
ment. His  friendships  were  liable  to  interrup- 
tion from  jealousy  or  disgust,  and  his  enmities 
died  away  under  the  influence  of  pity  or  self- 
accusation.  His  understanding  was  equal  to 
the  other  powers  of  his  mind,  and  his  deliber- 
ate opinions  were  singularly  candid  and  just; 
but,  like  other  men  of  great  and  irregular  ge- 
nius, the  opinions  which  he  delivered  in  con- 
versation were  often  the  offspring  of  temporary 
feelings,  and  widely  different  from  the  calm  de- 
cisions of  his  judgment.  This  was  not  mere- 
ly true  respecting  the  characters  of  others,  but 
in  regard  to  some  of  the  most  important  points 
of  human  speculation. 

On  no  subject  did  he  give  a more  striking 
proof  of  the  strength  of  his  understanding,  than 
in  the  correct  estimate  he  formed  of  himself. 
He  knew  his  own  failings  ; he  predicted  their 
consequence  ; the  melancholy  foreboding  was 
never  long  absent  from  his  mind  ; yet  his  pas- 
sions carried  him  down  the  stream  of  error, 
and  swept  him  over  the  precipice  he  saw  direct- 
ly in  his  course.  The  fatal  defect  in  his  char- 
acter lay  in  the  comparative  weakness  of  his 
volition,  that  superior  faculty  of  fhe  mind, 
which  governing  the  conduct  according  to  the 
dictates  of  the  understanding,  alone  entitles  it 
to  be  denominated  rational ; which  is  the  pa- 
rent of  fortitude,  patience,  and  self-denial; 
which,  by  regulating  and  combining  human  ex- 
ertions, may  be  said  to  have  effected  all  that  is 
great  in  the  works  of  man,  in  literature,  in  sci- 
ence, or  on  the  face  of  nature.  The  occupa- 
tions of  a poet  are  not  calculated  to  strengthen 
the  governing  powers  of  the  mind,  or  to  weak- 
en that  sensibility  which  requires  perpetual  con- 
trol, since  it  gives  birth  to  the  vehemence  of 
passion  as  well  as  to  the  higher  powers  of  im- 
agination. Unfortunately  the  favorite  occupa- 
tions of  genius  are  calculated  to  increase  all  its 
peculiarities;  to  nourish  that  lofty  pride  which 
disdains  the  littleness  of  prudence,  and  the  re- 
strictions of  order:  and  by  indulgence,  to  in- 
crease that  sensibility  which,  in  the  present 
form  of  our  existence,  is  scarcely  compatible 
with  peace  or  happiness,  even  when  accompa- 
nied with  the  choicest  gifts  of  fortune  ! 

It  is  observed  by  one  who  was  a friend  and 
associate  ol  Burns,*  and  who  has  contemplated 
and  explained  the  system  of  animated  nature, 
that  no  sentient  being  with  mental  powers  great- 
ly superior  to  those  of  men,  could  possibly  live 
and  be  happy  in  this  world — If  such  a being 
really  existed,”  continues  he,  “ his  misery  would 
be  extreme.  With  senses  more  delicate  and  re- 
refined  ; with  perceptions  more  acute  and  pen- 
etrating ; with  a taste  so  exquisite  that  the  ob- 
jects around  him  would  by  no  means  gratify  it ; 
obliged  to  feed  on  nourishment  too  gross  for  his 
frame  ; he  must  be  born  only  to  be  miserable  ; 
and  the  continuation  of  his  existence  would  be 
utterly  impossible.  Even  in  our  present  condi- 
tion, the  sameness  and  the  insipidity  of  objects 
and  pursuits,  the  futility  of  pleasure,  and  the 
infinite  sources  of  excruciating  pain,  are  sup- 
ported with  great  dilliculty  by  cultivated  and  re- 
fined minds.  Increase  our  sensibilities,  con- 
tinue the  same  objects  and  situation,  and  no  man 
could  bear  to  leave.’’ 

♦ Smellie.— See  his  “ Philosophy  of  Natural  History.” 


Thus  it  appears,  that  our  powers  of  sensation 
as  well  as  all  our  other  powers,  are  adapted  to 
the  scene  of  our  existence  ; that  they  are  limit- 
ed in  mercy,  as  well  as  in  wisdom. 

The  speculations  of  Mr.  Smellie  are  not  to  be 
considered  as  the  dreams  of  a theorist;  they 
were  probably  founded  on  sad  experience.  The 
being  he  supposes,  “ with  senses  more  delicate 
and  refined,  with  perceptions  more  acute  and 
penetrating,”  is  to  be  found  in  real  life.  He  is 
of  the  temperament  of  genius,  and  perhaps  a 
poet.  Is  there,  then,  no  remedy  for  this  inordi- 
nate sensibility  ? Are  there  no  means  by  which 
the  happiness  of  one  so  constituted  by  nature 
may  be  consulted  ? Perhaps  it  will  be  found, 
that  regular  and  constant  occupation,  irksome 
though  it  may  at  first  be,  is  the  true  remedy. 
Occupation  in  which  the  powers  of  the  under- 
standing are  exercised,  will  diminish  t lie  force 
of  external  impressions,  and  keep  the  imagina- 
tion under  restraint. 

That  the  bent  of  every  man’s  mind  should  be 
followed  in  his  education  and  in  his  destination 
in  life,  is  a maxim  which  has  been  often  repeat- 
ed. but  which  cannot  be  admitted,  without  many 
restrictions.  It  may  be  generally  true  when  ap- 
plied to  weak  minds,  which  being  capable  of 
little,  must  be  encouraged  and  strengthened  in 
the  feeble  impulses  by  which  that  little  is  pro- 
duced. But  where  indulgent  nature  has  bestow- 
ed her  gifts  with  a liberal  hand,  the  very  reverse 
of  tins  maxim  ought  frequently  to  be  the  rule  of 
conduct.  In  minds  of  a higher  order,  the  object 
of  instruction  and  of  discipline  is  very  often  to 
restrain,  rather  than  to  impel  ; to  curb  the  im- 
pulses of  imagination,  so  that  the  passions  also 
may  be  kept  under  control.* 

Hence  the  advantages,  even  in  a moral  point 
of  view,  of  studies  of  a severer  nature,  which 
while  they  inform  the  understanding,  employ 
the  volition,  that  regulating  power  of  the  mind, 
which,  like  all  our  other  faculties,  is  strength- 
ened by  eaercise,  and  on  the  superiority  of  which 
virtue,  happiness,  and  honorable  fame,  are  whol- 
ly dependant.  Hence  also  the  advantage  of 
regular  and  constant  application,  which  aids  the 
voluntary  power  by  the  production  of  habits  so 
necessary  to  t he  support  of  order  and  virtue, 
and  so  difficult  to  be  formed  in  the  temperament 
of  genius. 

'I  he  man  who  is  so  endowed  and  so  regulated, 
may  pursue  his  course  with  confidence  in  almost 
any  of  the  various  walks  of  life  which  choice  or 
accident  shall  open  to  him  ; and,  provided  he 
employs  the  talents  he  has  cultivated,  may  hope 
for  such  imperfect  happiness,  and  such  limited 
success,  as  are  reasonably  to  be  expected  from 
human  exertions. 

The  pre-eminence  among  men.  which  pro- 

* Quinctillian  discusses  the  important  question, 
whether  the  bent  of  the  individual's  genius  should  be 
followed  in  his  education  (an  secundum  sni  qvisque 
insrenii  docendiis  sit.  naturam ,)  chiefly,  indeed,  with  a 
reference  to  the  orator,  but  in  a way  that  admits  of 
very  general  application,  liis  conclusions  coincide 
very  much  wit  h those  of  the  text.  “ An  vero  Isocra- 
tes cum  do  Eplioro  atque  Theopompo  sic  judicaret, 
ut  alter  i frensis,alteri  cnlcaribus  opus  esse  dice  ret;  aut 
in  illo  lentiore  tarditatem,  aut  in  illo  pene  prsecipiii 
concitationem  adjuvandum  docendo  existimavit? 
cum  alterum  allerius  nature  miscendem  arhitraretur. 
Imbecillis  tameii  ingen:is  sane  sic  obsequer.dum,  sit, 
ut  tanium  in  id  quo  vor.at  natura,  ducantur.  Itaen- 
im,  qimd  soium  possunt,  melius  efficient  ” — Inst.  Or- 
ator. Lib.  ii.  9. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


203 


cures  personal  respect,  and  which  terminates  in 
lasting  reputation,  is  seldom  or  never  obtained 
by  the  excellence  of  a single  faculty  of  mind. 
Experience  teaches  us,  that  it  has  been  acquir- 
ed by  those  only  who  have  possessed  the  com- 
prehension and  the  energy  of  general  talents, 
and  who  have  regulated  their  application,  in  the 
line  which  choice,  or  perhaps  accident,  may 
have  determined,  by  the  dictates  of  their  judg- 
ment. Imagination  is  supposed,  and  with  jus- 
tice, to  be  the  leading  faculty  of  the  poet.  But 
what  poet  has  stood  the  test  of  lime  by  the 
force  of  this  single  faculty  ? Who  does  not  see 
that  Homer  and  Shakspeare  excelled  the  rest  of 
their  species  in  understanding  as  well  as  in  im- 
agination ; that  they  were  pre-eminent  in  the 
highest  species  of  knowledge — the  knowledge 
of  the  nature  and  character  of  man  ? On  the 
other  hand,  the  talent  of  ratiocination  is  more 
especially  requisite  to  the  orator  ; but  no  man 
ever  obtained  the  palm  of  oratory,  even  by  the 
highest  excellence  in  this  single  talent.  Who 
does  not  perceive  that  Demosthenes  and  Cicero 
were  not  more  happy  in  their  addresses  to  the 
reason,  than  in  their  appeals  to  the  passions  ? 
They  knew,  that  to  excite,  to  agitate,  and  to 
delight,  are  among  the  most  potent  arts  of  per- 
suasion ; and  they  enforced  their  impression  on 
the  understanding,  by  their  command  of  all  the 
sympathies  of  the  heart.  These  observations 
might  be  extended  to  other  walks  of  life.  He 
who  has  the  faculties  fitted  to  excel  in  poetry, 
has  the  faculties  which,  duly  governed,  and  dif- 
ferently directed,  might  lead  to  pre-eminence  in 
other,  and,  as  far  as  respects  himself,  perhaps  in 
happier  destinations.  The  talents  necessary  to 
the  construction  of  an  Iliad,  under  different  dis- 
cipline and  application,  might  have  led  armies 
to  victory,  or  kingdoms  to  prosperity  ; might 
have  wielded  the  thunder  of  eloquence,  or  dis- 
covered and  enlarged  the  sciences  that  consti- 
tute the  power  and  improve  the  condition  of  our 
species.*  Such  talents  are,  indeed,  rare  among 

*The  reader  must  not  suppose  it  is  contended  that 
the  same  individual  could  have  excelled  in  all  these 
directions.  A certain  degree  of  instruction  and  prac- 
tice are  necessary  to  excellence  in  every  one,  and 
life  is  too  short  to  admit  of  one  man.  however  great 
his  talents,  acquiring  this  in  all  of  them.  It  is  only 
asserted,  that  the  same  talents,  differently  applied, 
might  have  succeeded  in  any  one,  though,  perhaps, 
not  equally  well  in  each.  And,  after  all,  this  posi- 
tion requires  certain  limitations,  which  the  reader’s 
candor  and  judgment  will  supply.  In  supposing  that 
a great  poet  might  have  made  a great  orator,  the 
physical  qualities  necessary  to  oratory  are  presup- 
posed. In  supposing  that  a great  orator  might  have 
made  a gr  -at  poet,  it  is  a necessary  condition,  that 
he  should  have  devoted  himself  to  poetry,  and  that, 
he  should  have  acquired  a proficiency  in  metrical 
numbers,  which  by  patience  and  attention  may  be 
acquired,  though  the  want  of  it  has  embarrasse  d and 
chilled  many  of  the  first  efforts  of  true  poetical  ge- 
nius. In  supposing  that  Ilomer  might  have  1<  d ar- 
mies to  victory,  more  ii.deed  is  assumed  than  ihe 
physical  qualities  of  a general.  To  these  must  he  ad- 
ded that  hardihood  of  mind,  that  coolness  in  the  mid -t 
of  difficulty  and  danger,  which  great  pools  and  ora- 
tors are  found  sometimes,  but  not  always,  to  possess. 
The  nature  of  the  insti  utions  of  Greece  and  Home 
produced  more  instances  of  single  individuals  who 
excelled  in  various  departments  of  active  and  specu- 
lative life,  than  occur  in  modern  Europe,  where  the 
employments  of  men  are  more  subdivided.  Many 
of  the  greatest  warriors  of  antiquity  excelled  in  lit- 
erature and  oratory.  That  I hey  had  the  minds  of 
great  poets  also,  will  be  admitted,  when  the  quali- 
ties arc  justly  appreciated  which  are  necessary  to 


the  produciions  of  nature,  and  occasions  of  bring- 
ing them  into  full  exertion  are  rarer  still.  But 
sale  and  salutary  occupations  may  be  found 
for  men  of  genius  in  every  direction,  while  the 
useful  and  ornamental  arts  remain  to  be  culti- 
vated, while  the  sciences  remain  to  be  studied 
and  to  be  extended,  and  principles  of  science 
to  be  applied  to  the  correction  and  improvement 
of  art.  In  the  temperament  of  sensibility, 
which  is  in  truth  the  temperament  of  general 
talents,  the  principal  object  of  discipline  and 
instruction  is,  as  has  already  been  mentioned, 
to  strengthen  the  self-command;  and  this  may 
be  promoted  by  the  direction  of  the  studies, 
more  effectually  perhaps  than  lias  been  gener- 
ally understood. 

if  these  observations  be  founded  in  truth, 
they  may  lead  to  practical  consequences  of 
some  importance.  Jt  has  been  too  much  the 
custom  to  consider  the  possession  of  poetical 
talents  as  excluding  the  possibility  of  applica- 
tion to  the  severer  branches  of  study,  and  as 
in  some  degree  incapacitating  the  possessor 
from  attaining  those  habits,  and  from  bestow- 

excite,  combine,  and  command  the  active  energies 
of  a great  body  of  men,  to  rouse  that  enthusiasm 
which  sustains  fatigue,  hunger,  and  the  inclemen- 
cies of  the  elements,  and  which  triumphs  over  the 
fear  of  death,  the  most  powerful  instinct  of  our  na- 
ture. 

The  authority  of  Cirero  may  be  appealed  to  in  fa- 
vor of  the  close  connection  between  the  poet  and  the 
orator.  Est  enim Jinilimus  oratori  poeia,  numeris  ad- 
strictior  panto,  verboruvi  uutem  licentia  liberior,  Jpc. 
De  Oratore,  Lib.  i.  c.  Id.  See  also  Lib.  lii.  c.  7.  It 
is  true  the  example  of  Cicero  may  be  quoted  against 
his  opinion.  His  attempts  in  verse,  which  are 
praised  by  Plutarch,  do  not  seem  to  have  met  the 
approbation  of  Juvenal,  or  of  some  others.  Cicero 
probably  did  not  take  sufficient  time  to  learn  the  art 
of  the  poet ; but  that  be  had  the  afflatus  necessary 
to  poetical  excellence,  may  be  abundantly  proved 
from  his  compositions  in  prose.  On  the  other  hand, 
nothing  is  more  clear,  than  that,  in  the  character  of 
a great  poet,  all  the  mental  qualities  of  an  orator 
are  included.  It  is  said  by  Quinctiil  an,  of  Homer, 
Omnibus  eloquentia  part  bus  exemplum  et  ortumdedit. 
Lib.  i.  47.  The  study  of  Ilomer  is  therefore  recom- 
mended to  tiie  orator,  as  of  the  first  importance.  Of 
j the  two  sublime  poets  in  our  own  language,  who  are 
hardly  inferior  to  Homer,  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  a 
similar  recommendation  may  be  given.  It  is  scarce- 
ly necessary  to  mention  how  much  an  acquaintance 
with  them  has  availed  the  great  orator  who  is  now 
the  pride  and  ornament  of  the  English  bar,  a char- 
acter  that  may  be  appealed  to  with  singular  propri- 
ety, when  we  are  contending  for  the  universality 
of  genius. 

The  identity,  or  at  least  the  great  similarity,  of 
the  talents  necessary  to  excellence  in  poetry,  oratory, 
painting,  and  war,  will  be  admitted  by  some,  who 
will  he  inclined  to  dispute  the  extension  of  the  po- 
sition to  science  or  natural  knowledge.  On  this  oc- 
casion I may  quote  the  following  observations  of 
Sir  William  Jones,  whose  own  example  will,  how- 
ever, far  exceed  in  weight  ihe  authority  of  his  pre- 
cepts. “Abul  Ola  had  so  flourishing  a reputation, 
that  several  persons  of  uncommon  genius  were  am- 
bitious  of  learning  the  art  of  poetry  from  so  able  an 
instructor.  Ills  most  illustrious  scholars  were  Fele- 
ki  and  Khakani,  who  were  no  less  eminent  for  their 
Persian  compositions,  than  for  their  skill  in  every 
branch  of  pure  and  mixed  mathematics,  and  partic- 
ularly in  astronomy  ; a striking  proof  that  a sublime 
poet  may  become  master  of  any  kind  o;  learning 
which  he  chooses  to  profess  ; since  a fine  imagina- 
tion. a lively  wit,  an  easy  and  copious  style,  cannot 
possibly  obstruct  the  acquisition  of  any  science 
whatever;  but  must  necessarily  assist  him  in  his 
studies,  and  shorten  his  labor.”  Sir  William  Jones* 
Works,  vol.  ii.  p.  317. 


204 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ing  that  attention,  which  are  necessary  to  suc- 
cess in  the  details  of  business,  and  in  the  en- 
gagements of  active  life.  It  has  been  common 
tor  persons  conscious  of  such  talents,  to  look 
with  a sort  of  disdain  on  other  kinds  of  intel- 
lectual excellence,  and  to  consider  themselves 
as  in  some  degree  absolved  from  those  rules  of 
prudence  by  which  humbler  minds  are  restrict- 
ed. They  are  too  much  disposed  to  abandon 
themselves  to  their  own  sensations,  and  to  suf- 
fer life  to  pass  away  without  regular  exertion  or 
settled  purpose. 

But  though  men  of  genius  are  generally  prone 
to  indolence,  with  them  indolence  and  unhappi- 
ness are  in  a more  especial  manner  allied.  The 
unbidden  splendors  of  imagination  may  indeed  at 
times  irradiate  the  gloom  which  inactivity  pro- 
duces; but  such  visions,  though  bright,  are  tran- 
sient, and  serve  to  cast  the  realities  of  life  into 
deeper  shade.  In  bestowing  great  talents,' Na- 
ture seems  very  generally  to  have  imposed  on 
the  possessor  the  necessity  of  exertion,  if  he 
would  escape  wretchedness.  Better  for  him 
than  sloth,  toils  the  most  painful,  or  adventures 
the  most  hazardous.  Happier  to  him  than  idle- 
ness, were  the  condition  of  the  peasant,  earn- 
ing with  incessant  labor  his  scanty  food  ; or 
that  of  the  sailor,  though  hanging  on  the  yard- 
arm, and  wrestling  with  the  hurricane. 

These  observations  might  be  amply  illustrat- 
ed by  the  biography  of  men  of  genius  of  every 
denomination,  and  more  especially  by  the  biog- 
raphy of  the  poets.  Of  this  last  description  of 
men,  few  seem  to  have  enjoyed  the  usual  por- 
tion of  happiness  that  falls  to  the  lot  of  human- 
ity, those  excepted  who  have  cultivated  poetry 
as  an  elegant  amusement  in  the  hours  of  relax- 
ation from  other  occupations,  or  the  small  num- 
ber who  have  engaged  with  success  in  the 
greater  or  more  arduous  attempts  of  the  muse, 
in  which  all  the  faculties  of  the  mind  have  been 
fully  and  permanently  employed.  Even  taste, 
virtue,  and  comparative  independence,  do  not 
seem  capable  of  bestowing  on  men  of  genius, 
peace  and  tranquillity,  without  such  occupation 
as  may  give  regular  and  healthful  exercise  to 
the  faculties  of  the  body  and  mind.  The  amia- 
ble Shenstone  has  left  us  the  records  of  his  im- 
prudence, of  his  indolence,  and  of  his  unhap- 
piness, amidst  the  shades  of  the  LeasOwes  ;* 
and  the  virtues,  the  learning,  and  the  genius 
of  Gray,  equal  to  the  loftiest  attempts  of  the 
epic  muse,  tailed  to  procure  him,  in  the  academic 
bowers  of  Cambridge,  that  tranquillity  and  that 
respect  which  less  fastidiousness  of  taste,  and 
greater  constancy  and  vigor  of  exertion,  would 
have  doubtless  obtained. 

It  is  more  necessary  that  men  of  genius 
should  be  aware  of  the  importance  of  self-com- 
mand, and  of  exertion,  because  their  indolence 
is  peculiarly  exposed,  not  merely  to  unhappi- 
ness, but  to  diseases  of  mind,  and  to  errors  of 
conduct,  which  are  generally  fatal.  This  inter- 
esting subject  deserves  a particular  investiga- 
tion ; but  we  must  content  ourselves  with  one 
or  two  cursory  remarks.  Relief  is  sometimes 
sought  from  the  melancholy  of  indolence  in 
practices,  which  for  a time  soothe  and  gratify 
the  sensations,  but  which  in  the  end  involve  the 
sufferer  in  darker  gloom.  To  command  the  ex- 
ternal circumstances  by  which  happiness  is  af- 

* See  lbs  betters,  which,  as  a display  of  the  effects 
of  poetical  idleness,  are  highly  instructive. 


fected,  is  not  in  human  power,  but  there  are 
various  substances  in  nature  which  operate  on 
the  system  of  the  nerves,  so  as  to  give  a ficti- 
tious gayety  to  the  ideas  of  imagination,  and  to 
alter  the  effect  of  the  external  impressions  which 
we  receive.  Opium  is  chiefly  employed  lor 
this  purpose  by  the  disciples  of  Mahomet  and 
the  inhabitants  of  Asia : but  alcohol,  the  prin- 
ciple of  intoxication  in  vinous  and  spirituous 
liquors,  is  preferred  in  Europe,  and  is  univer- 
sally used  in  the  Christian  world.*  Under  the 
various  wounds  to  which  indolent  sensibility  is 
exposed,  and  under  the  gloomy  apprehensions 
respecting  futurity  to  which  it  is  so  often  a prey, 
how  strong  is  the  temptation  to  have  recourse 
to  an  antidote  by  which  the  pain  of  these 
wounds  is  suspended,  by  which  the  heart  is 
exhilarated,  visions  of  happiness  are  excited  in 
the  mind,  and  the  forms  of  external  nature 
clothed  with  new  beauty  ! 

“ Elysium  opens  round, 

A pleasing  frenzy  buoys  the  lighten’d  soul, 

And  sanguine  hopes  dispel  your  fleeting  care; 
And  what  was  difficult,  and  what  was  d;re, 

Yields  to  your  prowess,  and  superior  stars  : 

The  happiest  you  of  all  that  e’er  were  mad, 

Or  are,  or  shall  be,  could  this  folly  last. 

But  soon  your  heaven  is  gone;  a heavier  gloom 
Shuts  o’er  your  head 

Morning  comes  ; your  cares  return 

With  ten-fold  rage.  An  anxious  stomach  well 
May  be  endured  ; so  may  the  throbbing  head  : 

But  such  a dim  delirium  ; such  a dream 
Involves  you  ; such  a dastardly  despair 
Unmans  your  soul,  as  madd’ning  Penlheus  felt. 
When,  baited  round  Cithteron’s  cruel  sides, 

He  saw  two  suns  and  double  Thebes  ascend.” 
Armstrong's  Art  of  Preserving  Health. 

Such  are  the  pleasures  and  the  pains  of  in- 
toxication, as  they  occur  in  the  temperament 
of  sensibility,  described  by  a genuine  poet, 
with  a degree  of  truth  and  energy  which  noth- 
ing but  experience  could  have  dictated.  There 
are,  indeed,  some  individuals  of  this  tempera- 
ment, on  whom  wine  produces  no  cheering 

* There  are  a great  number  of  other  substances, 
which  may  be  considered  under  this  point  of  view. 
Tobacco,  tea,  and  coffee,  are  of  the  number.  These 
substances  essentially  differ  from  eacli  other  in  their 
qualities  ; and  an  inquiry  into  the  particular  effects 
of  each  on  the  health,  morals,  and  happiness  of  those 
who  use  them,  would  be  curious  and  useful.  The 
effects  of  wine  and  opium  on  the  temperament  of 
sensibility,  the  editor  intended  to  have  discussed  in 
this  place  at  some  length;  but  he  found  the  subject  too 
extensive  and  too  professional  to  be  introduced  with 
propriety.  The  difficulty  of  abandoning  any  of  these 
narcotics,  (if  we  may  so  term  them.)  when  inclina- 
tion is  strengthened  by  habit,  is  well  know'n.  John- 
son, in  his  distresses,  had  experienced  the  cheering 
but  treacherous  influence  of  wine,  and  by  a power- 
ful effort  abandoned  it.  He  was  obliged,  however, 
to  use  tea  as  a substitute,  and  this  was  the  solace  to 
which  he  constantly  had  recourse  under  his  habitu- 
al melancholy.  The  praises  of  wine  form  many  of 
the  most  beautiful  lyrics  of  the  poets  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  and  of  modern  Europe.  Whether  opium, 
which  produces  visions  still  more  ecstatic,  has  been 
the  theme  of  the  eastern  poems,  I do  not  know. 

Wine  is  drank  in  small  quantities  at  a time,  in 
company,  where,  for  a time,  it  promotes  harmony 
and  social  affection.  Opium  is  swallowed  by  the 
Asiatics  in  full  doses  at  once,  and  the  inebriate  re- 
tires to  the  solitary  indulgence  of  his  delirious  im 
agination.  Hence  the  wine-drinker  appears  in  a 
super  or  light  to  the  imbiber  of  opium,  a distinction 
which  he  owes  more  to  th a form  than  the  quality  of 
his  liquor. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


205 


influence.  On  some,  even  in  very  moderate 
quantities,  its  effects  are  painfully  irritating; 
in  large  draughts  it  excites  dark  and  melancho- 
ly ideas ; and  in  draughts  still  larger,  the  fierce- 
ness of  insanity  itself.  Such  men  are  happily 
exempted  from  a temptation,  to  which  experi- 
ence teaches  us  the  finest  dispositions  often 
yield,  and  the  influence  of  which,  when 
strengthened  by  habit,  it  is  a humiliating  truth, 
that  the  most  powerful  minds  have  not  been 
able  to  resist. 

It  is  the  more  necessary  for  men  of  genius 
to  be  on  their  guard  against  the  habitual  use 
of  wine,  because  it  is  apt  to  steal  on  them  in- 
sensibly ; and  because  the  temptation  to  excess 
usually  presents  itself  to  them  in  their  social 
hours,  when  they  are  alive  only  to  warm  and 
generous  emotions,  and  when  prudence  and 
moderation  are  often  contemned  as  selfishness 
and  timidity. 

It  is  the  more  necessary  for  them  to  guard 
against  excess  in  the  use  of  wine,  because  on 
them  its  effects  are,  physically  and  morally,  in 
an  especial  manner  injurious.  In  proportion  to 
its  stimulating  influence  on  the  system,  (on 
which  the  pleasurable  sensations  depend,)  is 
the  debility  that  ensues ; a debility  that  de- 
stroys digestion,  and  terminates  in  habitual 
fever,  dropsy,  jaundice,  paralysis,  or  insanity. 
As  the  strength  of  the  body  decays,  the  voli- 
tion fails ; in  proportion  as  the  sensations  are 
soothed  and  gratified,  the  sensibility  increases  ; 
and  morbid  sensibility  is  the  parent  of  indo- 
lence, because,  while  it  impairs  the  regulating 
power  of  the  mind,  it  exaggerates  all  the  ob- 
stacles to  exertion.  Activity,  perseverance, 
and  self-command,  become  more  and  more 
difficult,  and  the  great  purposes  of  utility,  pa- 
triotism, or  of  honorable  ambition,  which  had 
occupied  the  imagination,  die  away  in  fruitless 
resolutions,  or  in  feeble  efforts. 

To  apply  these  observations  to  the  subject  of 
our  memoirs,  would  be  a useless  as  weli  as  a 
painful  task.  It  is,  indeed,  a duty  we  owe  to 
the  living,  not  to  allow  our  admiration  of  ge- 
nius, or  even  our  pity  for  its  unhappy  destiny, 
to  conceal  or  disguise  its  errors.  But  there 
are  sentiments  of  respect,  and  even  of  tender- 
ness, with  which  this  duty  should  be  perform- 
ed ; there  is  an  awful  sanctity  which  invests  the 
mansions  of  the  dead ; and  let  those  who  mor- 
alize over  the  graves  of  their  contemporaries, 
reflect  with  humility  on  their  own  errors,  nor 
forget  how  soon  they  may  themselves  require 
the  candor  and  the  sympathy  they  are  called 
upon  to  bestow. 


Soon  after  the  death  of  Burns,  the  following 
article  appeared  in  the  Dumfries  Journal,  from 
which  it  was  copied  into  the  Edinburgh  news- 
papers, and  into  various  other  periodical  publi- 
cations. It  is  from  the  elegant  pen  of  a lady 
already  alluded  to  in  the  course  of  these  me- 
moirs,* whose  exertions  for  the  family  of  our 
bard,  in  the  circles  of  literature  and  fashion  in 
which  she  moves,  have  done  her  so  much  ho- 
nor. 

“ The  attention  of  the  public  seems  to  be 
much  occupied  at  present  with  the  loss  it  has 
sustained  in  the  death  of  the  Caledonian  poet, 

See  p.  199. 


Robert  Burns;  a loss  calculated  to  be  severely 
felt  throughout  the  literary  world,  as  well  as 
lamented  in  the  narrower  sphere  of  private 
friendship.  It  was  not,  therefore,  probable, 
that  such  an  event  should  be  long  unattended 
with  the  accustomed  profusion  of  posthumous 
anecdotes  and  memoirs  which  are  usually  cir- 
culated immediately  alter  the  death  of  every 
rare  and  celebrated  personage;  I had,  however, 
conceived  no  intention  of  appropriating  to  my- 
self the  privilege  of  criticising  Burns’  w’ritings 
and  character,  or  of  anticipating  on  the  province 
of  a biographer. 

“ Conscious,  indeed,  of  my  own  inability 
to  do  justice  to  such  a subject,  I should  have 
continued  wholly  silent,  had  misrepresentation 
and  calumny  been  less  industrious  ; but  a re- 
gard to  truth,  no  less  than  afl’ec.ion  to  the 
memory  of  a friend,  must  now  justify  my 
offering  to  the  public  a lew  at  least  of  those 
observations  which  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  Burns,  and  the  frequent  opportunities  I 
have  had  of  observing  equally  his  happy  quali- 
ties and  his  failings  for  several  years  past,  have 
enabled  me  to  communicate. 

“ It  will  actually  be  an  injustice  done  to 
Burns’  character,  not  only  by  future  genera- 
tions and  foreign  countries,  but  even  by  his 
native  Scotland,  and  perhaps  a number  of  his 
contemporaries,  that  he  is  generally  talked  of, 
and  considered,  with  reference  to  his  poetical 
talents  only:  lor  the  fact  is,  even  allowing  his 
great  and  original  genius  its  due  tribute  of  ad- 
miration, that  poetry  (1  appeal  to  all  who  have 
had  the  advantage  of  being  personally  acquaint- 
ed with  him)  was  actually  not  his  forte.  Ma- 
ny others,  perhaps,  may  have  ascended  to 
prouder  heights  in  the  region  of  Parnassus, 
but  none  certainly  ever  outshone  Burns  in  the 
charms — the  sorcery,  I would  almost  call  it,  of 
fascinating  conversation,  the  spontaneous  elo- 
quence of  social  argument,  or  the  unstudied 
poignancy  of  brilliant  repartee ; nor  was  any 
man,  1 believe,  ever  gifted  with  a larger  por- 
tion of  the  ‘ vivida  vis  animi .’  His  personal 

endowments  were  perfectly  correspondent  to 
the  qualifications  of  his  mind  ; his  form  was 
manly  ; his  action,  energy  itself;  devoid  in  a 
great  measure  perhaps  of  those  graces,  of  that 
polish,  acquired  only  in  the  refinement  of  so- 
cieties where  in  early  life  he  could  have  no  op- 
portunities of  mixing;  but  where  such  was  the 
irresistible  power  of  attraction  that  encircled 
him,  though  his  appearance  and  manners  were 
always  peculiar,  he  never  failed  to  delight  and 
to  excel.  His  figure  seemed  to  bear  testimony 
of  his  earlier  destination  and  employments.  It 
seemed  rather  moulded  by  nature  tor  the  rough 
exercises  of  agriculture,  than  the  gentler  culti- 
vation of  the  Belles  Lettres.  His  features 
were  stamped  with  the  hardy  character  of  in- 
dependence, and  the  firmness  of  conscious, 
though  not  arrogant,  pre-eminence  ; the  ani- 
mated expressions  of  countenance  were  almost 
peculiar  to  himself;  the  rapid  lightnings  of  his 
eye  were  always  the  harbingers  of  some  flash 
of  genius,  whether  they  darted  the  fiery  glances 
of  insulted  and  indignant  superiority,  or  beam- 
ed with  the  impassioned  sentiment  of  fervent 
and  impetuous  affections.  His  voice  alone 
could  improve  upon  the  magic  of  his  eye  : so- 
norous, replete  with  the  finest  modulations,  it 
alternately  captivated  the  ear  with  the  melody 


20G 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


of  poetic  numbers,  the  perspicuity  of  nervous 
reasoning,  or  the  ardent  sallies  of  enthusiastic 
patriotism.  The  keenness  of  satire  was,  I am 
annost  at  a loss  whether  to  say,  his  forte  or  his 
ioibie  ; lor  though  nature  had  endowed  him  with 
a portion  ol  the  most  pointed  excellence  in  that 
dangerous  talent,  he  suffered  it  too  often  to  be 
the  vehicle  ol  personal,  and  sometimes  unfound- 
ed animosities.  It  was  not  always  that  sport- 
iveness ol  humor,  that  * unwary  pleasantry,’ 
which  Sterne  has  depicted  with  touches  so 
conciliatory,  but  the  darts  of  ridicule  were  fre- 
quently directed  as  the  caprice  of  the  instant 
suggested,  or  as  the  altercation  of  parties  and 
ot  persons  happened  to  kindle  the  restlessness 
oi  his  spirit  into  interest  or  aversion.  This, 
however,  was  not  invariably  the  case;  his  wit 
(which  is  no  unusual  matter  indeed,)  had  al- 
ways  the  start  of  his  judgment,  and  would 
lead  him  to  the  indulgence  oi  raillery  uniformly 
acute,  but  often  unaccompanied  with  the  least 
destre  to  wound.  The  suppression  of  an  arch 
and  full-pointed  bon-mot,  from  the  dread  of 
offending  its  object,  the  sage  of  Zurich  very 
properly  classes  as  a virtue  only  to  besought  for 
in  the  Calendar  of  Saints;  if  so,  Burns  must 
not_  be  too  severely  dealt  with  for  being  rather 
deficient  in  it.  He  paid  for  his  mischievous 
wit  as  dearly  as  any  one  could  do.  *’T  was 
no  extravagant  arithmetic, ’ to  say  of  him,  as 
was  said  ot  V orick,  that  ‘ for  every  ten  jokes 
he  got  a hundred  enemies  but  much  allowance 
will  be  made  by  a candid  mind  for  the  splenetic 
warmth  of  a spirit  whom  1 distress  had  spited 
with  the  world,’  and  which,  unbounded  in  its 
intellectual  sallies  and  pursuits,  continually  ex- 
perienced  curbs  imposed  by  the  waywardness 
of  his  fortune.  The  vivacity  of  his  wishes  and 
ins  temper  was  indeed  checked  by  almost  hab- 
itual disappointments,  which  sat  heavy  on  a 
neart  which^  acknowledged  the  ruling  passion 
of  independence,  without  ever  having  been 
placed  beyond  the  grasp  of  penury.  liis  soul 
was  never  languid  or  inactive,  and  Ins  genius  was 
extinguished  only  with  the  last  spark  of  retreat- 
ing life.  His  passions  rendered  him,  according 
as  they  disclosed  themselves  in  affection  or  an- 
tipathy, an  object  of  enthusiastic  attachment, 
or  of  decided  enmity  ; for  he  possessed  none  of 
that  negative  insipidity  of  character,  whose 
resentment  could  be  considered  with  contempt. 

In  this,  it  should  seem,  the  temper  of  his  asso- 
ciates took  the  tincture  from  his  own  ; for  he 
•acknowledged  in  the  universe  but  two  classes 
of  objects,  those  of  adoration  the  most  fervent, 
or  ot  aversion  the  most  uncontrollable  ; and  it 
has  been  frequently  a reproach  to  him,  that,  un- 
susceptible of  indifference,  often  hating  where 
he  ought  only  to  have  despised,  he  alternately 
opened  his  heart  and  poured  forth  the  treasures 
oi  his  understanding  to  such  as  were  incapable 
of  appreciating  the  homage  ; and  elevated  to 
the  privileges  of  an  adversary  some  who  were 
unqualified  in  all  respects  for  the  honor  of  a 
contest  so  distinguished. 

It  is  said  that  the  celebrated  Dr.  Johnson  pro- 
fessed to  4 love  a good  hater,’ — a temperament 
that  would  have  singularly  adapted  him  to  cher- 
ish a preposession  in  favor  of  our  bard,  who 
fell  but  little  short  even  of  the  surly  Doctor  in 
this  qualification,  as  long  as  the  disposition  to 
ill-will  continued  ; but  the  warmth  of  his  pas- 
sions was  fortunately  corrected  by  their  ver- 


satility. He  was  seldom,  indeed  never,  im 
placable  in  his  resentments,  and  sometimes  it 
has  been  alleged,  not  inviolably  faithful  m his 
engagements  oi  friendship.  Much,  indeed,  has 
been  said  about  Ins  inconstancy  and  caprice  • 
but  l am  inclined  to  believe  that  they  originated 
less  in  levity  of  sentiment,  than  from  an  ex- 
treme impetuosity  of  feeling,  which  rendered 
him  prompt  to  take  umbrage ; and  Ins  sensa- 
tions of  pique,  where  he  fancied  he  had  discov- 
ered the  traces  of  neglect,  scorn,  or  unkind- 
ness, took  their  measure  of  asperity  from  the 
overhovvings  of  the  opposite  sentiment  which 
preceded  them,  and  which  seldom  failed  to  re- 
gain its  ascendancy  in  his  bosom  on  the  return  of 
calmer  reflection.  He  was  candid  and  manly 
in  tne  avowal  of  his  errors,  and  his  avowal  was 
reparation.  His  native  fierte  never  forsaking 
him  for  a moment,  the  value  of  a frank  ac- 
knowledgment was  enhanced  tenfold  towards 
a generous  mind,  from  its  never  being  attended 
with  servility.  His  mind,  organized  only  for 
the  stronger  and  more  acute  operations  of  the 
passions,  was  impracticable  to  the  efforts  of 
superciliousness  that  would  have  depressed  it 
into  humility,  and  equally  superior  to  the  en- 
croachments of  venal  suggestions  that  might 
have  led  lnm  into  the  mazes  of  hypocrisy. 

“It  has  been  observed,  that  he  was  far  from 
averse  to  the  incense  of  flattery,  and  could  re- 
ceive it  tempered  with  less  delicacy  than  might 
have  been  expected,  as  he  seldom  transgressed 
extravagantly  in  that  way  himself;  where  he 
paid  a compliment,  it  might  indeed  claim  the 
power  of  intoxication,  as  approbation  from  him 
was  always  an  honest  tribute  from  the  warmth 
and  sincerity  of  his  heart.  It  has  been  some- 
times represented  by  those  who  it  should  seem 
had  a view  to  depreciate,  though  they  could  not 
hoPe  wh°lly  to  obscure  that  native  brilliancy, 
which  the  powers  of  this  extraordinary  man  had 
invariably  bestowed  on  every  thing  that  came 
from  lus  lips  or  pen.  that  the  history  of  the  Ayr- 
shire plough-boy  w’as  an  ingenious  fiction,  fab- 
ricated lor  the  purposes  of  obtaining  the  interests 
of  the  great,  and  enhancing  the  merits  of  what 
required  no  foil.  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night, 
Tam  o'  Shunter,  and  The  Mountain  Daisy,  be- 
sides  a number  of  later  productions,  where  the 
maturity  of  his  genius  will  be  readily  traced 
and  which  will  be  given  to  the  public  as  soon 
as  his  friends  have  collected  and  arranged  them 
speak  sufficiently  for  themselves  ; and  had  they 
fallen  from  a hand  more  dignified  in  the  ranks 
of  society  than  that  of  a peasant,  they  had,  per- 
haps, bestowed  as  unusual  a grace  there,  as  ev- 
en in  the  humbler  shade  of  rustic  inspiration 
from  whence  they  really  sprung. 

“To  the  obscure  scene  of  Burns’education,  and 
to  the  laborious  though  honorable  station  of  ru- 
ral industry,  in  which  his  parentage  enrolled  him 
almost  every  inhabitant  of  the  south  of  Scotland 
can  give  testimony.  His  only  surviving  broth- 
er,  Gilbert  Burns,  now  guides  the  ploughshare 
oi  his  foielathers  in  Ayrshire,  at  a farm  near 
Mauchline  ;*  and  our  poet’s  eldest  son  (a  lad  of 
nine  years  of  age,  whose  early  dispositions  al 
ready  prove  him  to  be  in  some  measure  the  in- 
heritor of  his  lather’s  talents  as  well  as  indi- 

* This  very  respectable  and  very  superior  man  is 
now  removed  to  Dumfriesshire.  He  rents  lands  on 
the  estate  of  Closeburn,  and  is  a tenant  ofthe  ven- 
erable Dr.  Montehh,  (1800.)  E 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


207 


encc)  has  been  destined  by  his  family  to  the 

umble  employment  of  the  loom.* 

“ That  Burns  received  no  classical  education, 
and  was  acquainted  with  the  Greek  and  Roman 
authors  only  through  the  medium  of  translations, 
is  a fact  of  which  all  who  were  in  the  habit  of 
conversing  with  him  might  readily  be  convin- 
ced. I have,  indeed,  seldom  observed  him  to  be 
at  a loss  in  conversation,  unless  where  the  dead 
languages  and  their  writers  have  been  the  sub- 
jects ot  discussion.  When  I pressed  him  to  tell 
me  why  he  never  applied  himself  to  acquire  the 
Latin,  in  particular,  a language  which  his  happy 
memory  would  have  so  enabled  him  to  be  mas- 
ter of,  he  used  only  to  reply  with  a smile,  that 
he  had  already  learned  all  the  Latin  he  desired 
to  know,  and  that  was  omnia  vincit  amor;  a sen- 
tence, that  from  his  writings  and  most  favorite 
pursuits,  it  should  undoubtedly  seem  that  he 
was  most  thoroughly  versed  in  : but  I really 
believe  his  classic  erudition  extended  little,  if 
any,  further. 

“ The  penchant  Burns  had  uniformly  ac- 
knowledged for  the  festive  pleasures  of  the  ta- 
ble, and  towards  the  fairer  and  softer  objects  of 
nature’s  creation,  has  been  the  rallying  point 
from  whence  the  attacks  of  his  censors  have 
been  uniformly  directed  : and  to  these,  it  must 
be  confessed,  he  showed  himself  no  stoic.  His 
poetical  pieces  blend  with  alternate  happiness 
of  description,  the  frolic  spirit  of  the  llowing 
bowl,  or  melt  the  heart  to  the  tender  and  im- 
passioned sentiments  in  which  beauty  always 
taught  him  to  pour  forth  his  own.  But  who 
would  wish  to  reprove  the  feelings  he  has  con- 
secrated vvith  such  lively  touches  of  nature  ? 
And  where  is  the  rugged  moralist  who  will  per- 
suade us  so  far  to  ‘ chill  the  genial  current  of  the 
soul,’  as  to  regret  that  Ovid  ever  celebrated  his 
Corinna,  or  that  Anacreon  sung  beneath  his 
vine  ? 

“I  will  not,  however,  undertake  to  be  the 
apologist  of  the  irregularities  even  of  a man  of 
genius,  though  I believe  it  is  as  certain  that  gen- 
ius was  never  free  from  irregularities,  as  that  their 
absolution  may,  in  a great  measure,  be  justly 
claimed,  since  it  is  perfectly  evident  that  the 
world  had  continued  very  stationary  in  its  intel- 
lectual acquirements,  had  it  never  given  birth 
to  any  but  men  of  plain  sense.  Evenness  of 
conduct,  and  a due  regard  to  the  decorums  of 
the  world,  have  been  so  rarely  seen  to  move 
hand  in  hand  with  genius,  that  some  have  gone 
as  far  as  to  say,  though  there  I cannot  wholly  ac- 
quiesce, that  they  are  even  incompatible ; besides 
the  frailties  that  cast  their  shade  over  the  splen- 
dor of  superior  merit,  are  more  conspicuously 
glaring  than  where  they  are  the  attendants  of 
mere  mediocrity.  It  is  only  on  the  gem  we  are 
disturbed  to  see  the  dust : the  pebble  may  be 
soiled,  and  we  never  regard  it.  The  eccentric 
intuitions  of  genius  too  often  yield  the  soul  to 
the  wild  effervesence  of  desires,  always  unboun- 
ded, and  sometimes  equally  dangerous  to  the 
repose  ofothers,  as  fatal  to  its  own.  N o wonder, 
then,  if  virtue  herself  be  sometimes  lost  in  the 
blaze  of  kindling  imagination,  or  that  the  calm 
monitions  of  reason  are  not  invariably  found  suf- 
ficient to  fetter  an  imagination,  which  scorns  the 
narrow  limits  and  restrictions  that  would  chain 
it  to  the  level  of  ordinary  minds.  The  child  of 
nature,  the  child  of  sensibilily,  unschooled  in 

* This  destination  is  now  altered,  (1800.)  E. 


the  rigid  precepts  of  philosophy,  too  often  una- 
ble to  control  the  passions  which  proved  a source 
of  frequent  errors  and  misfortunes  to  him,  Burns 
made  his  own  artless  apology  in  language  more 
impressive  than  all  the  argumentatory  vindica- 
tions in  the  world  could  do,  in  one  of  his  own 
poems,  where  he  delineates  the  gradual  expan- 
sion of  his  mind  to  the  lessons  ol  the  * tutelary 
muse,’  who  concludes  an  address  to  her  pupil, 
almost  unique  for  simplicity  and  beautiful  poet- 
ry, with  these  lines : 

“ I saw  thy  pulse’s  inadd’ning  play 
Wild  send  thee  pleasure’s  devious  way  ; 
Misled  by  fancy’s  meteor  ray, 

By  passion  driven ; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  lightfrom  heaven."* 

“ I have  already  transgressed  beyond  the 
bounds  I had  proposed  to  myself,  on  first  com- 
mitting this  sketch  to  paper,  which  comprehends 
what  at  least  I have  been  led  to  deem  the  lead- 
ing features  of  Burns’  mind  and  character:  a lit- 
erary critique  I do  not  aim  at ; mine  is  wholly 
fulfilled,  if  in  these  pages  I have  been  able  to 
delineate  any  of  those  strong  traits  that  distin- 
guished him,  of  those  talents  which  raised  him 
lrom  the  plough,  where  he  passed  the  bleak 
morning  of  his  life,  weaving  his  rude  wreaths 
of  poesy  with  the  wild  field-fiowers  that  sprang 
around  his  cottage,  to  that  enviable  eminence 
of  literary  fame,  where  Scotland  will  long  cher- 
ish his  memory  with  delight  and  gratitude  ; and 
proudly  remember,  that  beneath  her  cold  sky  a 
genius  was  ripened,  without  care  or  culture, 
that  would  have  done  honor  to  climes  more  fa- 
vorable to  those  luxuriances — that  warmth  of 
coloring  and  fancy  in  which  he  so  eminently  ex- 
celled. 

“ From  several  paragraphs  I have^noticed  in 
the  public  prints,  ever  since  the  idea  of  sending 
this  sketch  to  some  one  of  them  was  formed,  I 
find  private  animosities  have  not  yet  subsided, 
and  that  envy  has  not  exhausted  all  her  shafts. 
I still  trust,  however,  that  honest  fame  will  be 
permanently  affixed  to  Burns’ character,  which  I 
think  it  will  be  found  he  has  merited,  by  the  can- 
did and  impartial  among  his  countrymen.  And 
where  a recollection  of  the  imprudence  that  sul- 
lied his  brighter  qualifications  interpose,  let  the 
imperfection  of  all  human  excellence  be  remem- 
bered at  the  same  time,  leaving  those  inconsist- 
encies , which  alternately  exalted  his  nature  into 
the  seraph,  and  sunk  it  again  into  the  man,  to 
the  tribunal  which  alone  can  investigate  the  laby- 
rinths of  the  human  heart — 

‘ Where  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose , 

— The  bosoin  of  his  father  and  his  God.’ 

Gray’s  Elegy. 

“ Annandale , Jlug.  7,  1796.” 

After  this  account  of  the  life  and  personal 
character  of  Burns,  it  may  be  expected  that 
some  inquiry  should  be  made  into  his  literary 
merits.  It  will  not,  however,  be  necessary  to 
enter  very  minutely  into  this  investigation.  If 
fiction  be,  as  some  suppose,  the  soul  of  poetry, 
no  one  had  ever  less  pretensions  to  the  name 
of  poet  than  Burns.  Though  he  has  displayed 
great  powers  of  imagination,  yet  the  subjects 
on  which  he  has  written,  are  seldom,  if  ever, 
imaginary  ; his  poems,  as  well  as  his  letters, 
may  be  considered  as  the  effusions  of  his  sen- 
sibility, and  the  transcripts  of  his  own  musings 
* Vide  the  Vision— Duan  2d. 


208 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


on  the  real  incidents  of  his  humble  life.  If  we 
add,  that  they  also  contain  most  happy  delinea- 
tions of  the  characters,  manners,  ana  scenery 
that  presented  themselves  to  his  observation, 
we  shall  include  almost  all  the  subjects  of  his 
muse.  His  writings  may,  therefore,  be  regard- 
ed as  affording  a great  part  of  the  data  on  which 
our  account  of  his  personal  character  has  been 
founded;  and  most  of  the  observations  we  have 
applied  to  the  man,  are  applicable,  with  little 
variation,  to  the  poet. 

The  impression  of  his  birth,  and  of  his  ori- 
ginal station  in  life,  was  not  more  evident  on 
his  form  and  manners,  than  on  his  poetical  pro- 
ductions. The  incidents  which  form  the  sub- 
jects of  his  poems,  though  some  of  them  highly 
interesting,  and  susceptible  of  poetical  imagery, 
are  incidents  in  the  life  of  a peasant  who  takes 
no  pains  to  disguise  the  lowliness  of  his  condi- 
tion, or  to  throw  into  shade  the  circumstances 
attending  it,  which  more  feeble  or  more  artifi- 
cial minds  would  have  endeavored  to  conceal. 
The  same  rudeness  and  inattention  appears  in 
the  formation  of  his  rhymes,  which  are  fre- 
quently incorrect,  while  the  measure  in  which 
some  of  the  poems  are  written,  has  little  of  the 
pomp  and  harmony  of  modern  versification, 
and  is  indeed  to  an  English  ear,  strange  and 
uncouth.  The  greater  part  of  his  earlier  poems 
are  written  in  the  dialect  of  his  country,  which 
is  obscure,  if  not  unintelligible  to  Englishmen  ; 
and  which,  though  it  still  adheres  more  or  less 
to  the  speech  of  every  Scotchman,  all  the  po- 
lite and  the  ambitious  are  now  endeavoring  to 
banish  from  their  tongues  as  well  as  their  writ- 
ings. The  use  of  it  in  composition  naturally 
therefore  calls  up  ideas  of  vulgarity  in  the  mind. 
These  singularities  are  increased  by  the  char- 
acter of  the  poet,  who  delights  to  express  him- 
self with  a simplicity  that  approaches  to  naked- 
ness, and  with  an  unmeasured  energy  that  often 
alarms  delicacy,  and  sometimes  offends  taste. 
Hence,  in  approaching  him,  the  first  impres- 
sion is  perhaps  repulsive  : there  is  an  air  of 
coarseness  about  him  which  is  with  difficulty 
reconciled  to  our  established  notions  of  poetical 
excellence. 

As  the  reader,  however,  becomes  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  poet,  the  effects  of  his  pecu- 
liarities lessen.  He  perceives  in  his  poems, 
even  on  the  lowest  subjects,  expressions  of 
sentiment,  and  delineations  of  manners,  which 
are  highly  interesting.  The  scenery  he  de- 
scribes is  evidently  taken  from  real  life  ; the 
characters  he  introduces,  and  the  incidents  he 
relates,  have  the  impression  of  nature  and  truth. 
His  humor,  though  wild  and  unbridled,  is  irre- 
sistably  amusing,  and  is  sometimes  heightened 
in  its  effepts  by  the  introduction  of  emotions 
of  tenderness,  with  which  genuine  humor  so 
happily  unites.  Nor  is  this  the  extent  of  his 
power.  The  reader,  as  he  examines  farther, 
discovers  that  the  poet  is  not  confined  to  the 
descriptive,  the  humorous  or  the  pathetic  ; he 
is  found,  as  occasion  offers,  to  rise  with  ease 
into  the  terrible  and  the  sublime.  Everywhere 
he  appears  devoid  of  artifice,  performing  what 
he  attempts  with  little  apparent  effort ; and  im- 
pressing on  the  offspring  of  his  fancy  the  stamp 
of  his  understanding.  The  reader,  capable  of 
forming  a just  estimate  of  poetical  talents,  dis- 
covers in  these  circumstances  marks  of  uncom- 
mon genius,  and  is  willing  to  investigate  more 


minutely  its  nature  and  its  claims  to  originali- 
ty. This  last  point  we  shall  examine  first. 

That  Burns  had  not  the  advantages  of  a clas- 
sical education,  or  of  any  degree  of  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Greek  or  Roman  writers  in  their 
original  dress,  has  appeared  in  the  history  of 
his  life.  He  acquired  indeed  some  knowledge 
of  the  French  language,  but  it  does  not  appear 
that  he  was  ever  much  conversant  in  French 
literature,  nor  is  there  any  evidence  of  his  hay- 
ing derived  any  of  his  poetical  stores  from  that 
source.  With  the  English  classics  he  became 
well  acquainted  in  the  course  of  his  life,  and 
the  effects  of  this  acquaintance  are  observable 
in  his  latter  productions  ; but  the  character  and 
style  of  his  poetry  were  formed  very  early,  and 
the  model  which  he  followed,  in  as  far  as  he 
can  be  said  to  have  had  one,  is  to  be  sought 
for  in  the  works  of  the  poets  who  have  written 
in  the  Scottish  dialect — in  the  works  of  such 
of  them  especially  as  are  familiar  to  the  peas- 
antry of  Scotland.  Some  observations  on  these 
may  form  a proper  introduction  to  a more  par- 
ticular examination  of  the  poetry  of  Burns. 
The  studies  of  the  Editor  in  this  direction  are 
indeed  very  recent  and  imperfect.  It  would 
have  been  imprudent  for  him  to  have  entered 
•on  this  subject  at  all,  but  for  the  kindness  of 
Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre,  whose  assistance 
he  is  proud  to  acknowledge,  and  to  whom  the 
reader  must  ascribe  whatever  is  of  value  in  the 
following  imperfect  sketch  of  literary  composi- 
tions in  the  Scottish  idiom. 

It  is  a circumstance  not  a little  curious,  and 
which  does  not  seem  to  be  satisfactorily  ex- 
plained, that  in  the  thirteenth  century,  the  lan- 
guage of  the  two  British  nations,  if  at  all  dif- 
ferent, differed  only  in  the  dialect,  the  Gaelic 
in  the  one,  like  the  Welsh  and  Armoric  in  the 
other,  being  confined  to  the  mountainous  dis- 
tricts.* The  English  under  the  Edwards,  and 
the  Scots  under  Wallace  and  Bruce,  spoke  the 
same  language.  We  may  observe  also,  that  in 
Scotland  the  history  of  poetry  ascends  to  a pe- 
riod nearly  as  remote  as  in  England.  Barbour, 
and  Blind  Harry,  James  the  First,  Dunbar, 
Douglas  and  Lindsay,  who  lived  in  the  four- 
teenth, fifteenth,  and  sixteenth  centuries,  were 
coeval  with  the  fathers  of  poetry  in  England  : 
and  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Wharton,  not  inferior 
to  them  in  genius  or  in  composition.  Though 
the  language  of  the  two  countries  gradually  de- 
viated from  each  other  during  this  period,  yet 
the  difference  on  the  whole  was  not  consider- 
able'; not  perhaps  greater  than  between  the 
different  dialects  of  the  different  parts  of  Eng- 
land in  our  own  time. 

At  the  death  of  James  the  Fifth,  in  1542, 
the  language  of  Scotland  was  in  a flourishing 
condition,  wanting  only  writers  in  prose  equal 
to  those  in  verse.  Two  circumstances,  pro- 
pitious on  the  whole,  operated  to  prevent  this. 
The  first  was  the  passion  of  the  Scots  for  com- 
position in  Latin  ; and  the  second,  the  acces- 
sion of  James  the  Sixth  to  the  English  throne. 
It  may  easily  be  imagined,  that  if  Buchanan 
had  devoted  his  admirable  talents,  even  in  part, 
to  the  cultivations  of  his  native  tongue,  as  was 
done  by  the  revivers  of  letters  in  Italy,  he 
would  have  left  compositions  in  that  language 
which  might  have  incited  other  men  of  genius 

* Historical  Essay  on  Scottish  Song,  p.  20,  by  M. 
Ritson. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


to  have  followed  his  example,*  and  given  du- 
ration to  the  language  itself.  The  union  of 
the  two  crowns  in  the  person  of  James,  over- 
threw all  reasonable  expectation  of  this  kind. 
That  monarch,  seated  on  the  English  throne,  j 
would  no  longer  suffer  himself  to  be  addressed 
in  the  rude  dialect  in  which  the  Scottish  clergy  I 
had  so  often  insulted  his  dignity,  lie  encour-  I 
aged  Latin  or  English  only,  both  of  which  he  1 
nrided  himself  on  writing  with  purity,  though  ■ 
lie  himself  never  could  acquire  the  English  I 
pronunciation,  but  spoke  with  a Scottish  idiom 
and  intonation  to  the  last.  Scotsmen  of  talents 
declined  writing  in  theiir  native  language,  which  j 
they  knew  was  not  acceptable  to  their  learned  ; 
and  pedantic  monarch  ; and  at  a time  when 
national  prejudice  and  enmity  prevailed  to  a 
great  degree,  they  disdained  to  study  the  nice- 
ties of  the  English  tongue,  though  of  so  much 
easier  a equation  than  a dead  language.  Lord 
Stirling  and  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  the 
only  Scotsmen  who  wrote  poetry  those  times, 
were  excepiions.  They  studied  the  language 
of  England  and  composed  in  it  with  precision 
and  elegance.  They  were,  however,  the  last 
of  their  countrymen  who  deserved  to  be  con- 
sidered as  poets  in  that  century.  The  muses 
of  Scotland  sunk  into  silence,  and  did  not 
again  raise  their  voices  for  a period  of  eighty 
years. 

To  what  causes  are  we  to  attribute  this  ex- 
treme depression  among  a people  comparatively 
learned,  enterprising,  and  ingenius  ? Shall  we 
impute  it  to  the  fanaticism  of  the  covenanters, 
or  to  the  tyranny  of  the  house  of  Stuart,  after 
their  restoration  to  the  throne  ? Doubtless 
these  causes  operated,  but  they  seem  unequal  to 
account  for  the  effect.  In  England,  similar 
distractions  and  oppressions  took  place,  yet 
poetry  flourished  there  in  a remarkable  degree. 
During  this  period,  Cowley,  and  Waller,  and 
Dryden  sung,  and  Milton  raised  his  strain  of  j 
unparalleled  grandeur.  To  the  causes  already  ! 
mentioned,  another  must  be  added,  in  account-  | 
ing  for  the  torpor  of  the  Scottish  literature — the 
want  of  a proper  vehicle  for  men  of  genius,  to  j 
employ.  The  civil  wars  had  frightened  away 
the  Latin  Muses,  and  no  standard  had  been  es- 
tablished of  the  Scottish  tongue,  which  was 
deviating  still  farther  from  the  pure  English 
idiom. 

The  revival  of  literature  in  Scotland  may  be 
dated  from  the  establishment  of  the  union,  or 
rather  from  the  extinction  of  the  rebellion  in 
1715.  The  nations  being  finally  incorporated, 
it  was  clearly  seen  that  their  tongues  must  in 
the  end  incorporate  also  ; or  rather  indeed  that 
the  Scottish  language  must  degenerate  into  a 
provincial  idiom,  to  be  avoided  by  those  who 
would  aim  at  distinction  in  letters,  or  rise  to 
eminence  in  the  united  legislature. 

Soon  after  this,  a band  of  men  of  genius  ap- 
peared, who  studied  the  English  classics,  and  j 
imitated  their  beauties,  in  the  same  manner  as 
they  studied  the  classics  of  Greece  and  Rome. 
They  had  admirable  models  of  composition 
lately  presented  to  them  by  the  writers  of  the 
reign  of  Queen  Anne;  particularly  in  1 lie  pe-  j 
riodical  papers  published  by  Steele,  Addison, 
and  their  associated  friends,  which  circulated 
widely  through  Scotland,  and  diffused  every 

* e . g.  The  Authors  of  the  Delicia  Poe'arum  Sco-  i 
torum,  &o.  _ . i 

14 


209 

! where  a taste  for  purity  of  style  and  sentiment, 
and  lor  critical  disquisition.  At  length  the 
Scottish  writers  succeeded  in  English  compo- 
sition, and  a union  was  formed  ot  t lie  literary 
talents,  as  weil  as  of  the  legislatures  of  tho 
two  nations.  • On  this  occasion  the  poets  took 
the  lead.  While  Henry  Home,*  Dr.  Wallace, 
and  their  learned  associates,  were  only  lay- 
ing in  their  intellectual  stores,  and  studying  to 
clear  themselves  of  their  Scottish  idioms, 
Thomson,  Mallet,  and  Hamilton  of  Bangour, 
had  made  their  appearance  before  the  public, 
and  been  enrolled  in  the  list  of  English  poets. 
The  writers  in  prose  followed,  a numerous  and 
powerful  band,  and  poured  1 heir  ample  stores 
into  the  general  stream  of  British  literature. 
Scotland  possessed  her  four  universities  before 
the  accession  ot  James  to  the  English  throne. 
Immediately  before  the  union,  she  acquired 
her  parochial  schools.  These  establishments 
combining  happily  together,  made  the  elements 
of  knowledge  ot  easy  acquisition,  and  present- 
ed a direct  path,  by  which  the  ardent  student 
might  be  carried  along  into  the  recesses  of  sci- 
ence or  learning.  As  civil  broils  ceased,  and 
faction  and  prejudice  gradually  died  away,  a 
wider  field  was  opened  tor  literary  ambition, 
and  the  influence  of  Scottish  institutions  for 
instruction,  on  the  productions  of  the  press, 
became  more  and  more  apparent. 

It  seems  indeed  probable,  that  the  establish- 
ment of  the  parochial  schools  produced  effects 
on  the  rural  muse  of  Scotland  also,  which  have 
not  hitherto  been  suspected,  and  which,  though 
less  splendid  in  their  nature,  are  not  however 
to  be  considered  as  trivial,  whether  we  consid- 
er the  happiness  or  the  morals  of  the  people. 

There  is  some  reason  to  believe,  that  the 
original  inhabitants  of  the  British  isles  possess- 
ed a peculiar  and  interesting  species  of  music, 
which  being  banished  from  the  plains  by  the 
Saxons,  Danes,  and  Normans,  was  preserved 
with  the  native  race,  in  the  wilds  of  Ireland 
and  in  the  mountains  of  Scotland  and  Wales. 
The  Irish,  the  Scottish,  and  the  Welsh  music 
difier,  indeed,  from  each  other,  but  the  differ- 
ence may  be  considered  as  in  dialect  only,  and 
probably  produced  by  the  influence  of  time, 
and  like  the  different  dialects  of  their  common 
language.  If  this  conjecture  be  true,  the  Scot- 
tish music  must  be  more  immediately  of  a 
Highland  origin,  and  the  Lowland  tunes, 
though  now  of  a character  somewhat  distinct, 
must  have  descended  from  the  mountains  in 
remote  ages.  Whatever  credit  may  be  given 
to  conjectures,  evidently  involved  in  great  un- 
certainty, there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry  have  been  long  in  possession  of 
a number  of  songs  and  ballads  composed  in 
their  native  dialect,  and  sung  to  their  native 
music.  The  subjects  of  these  compositions 
were  such  as  most  interested  the  simple  inhab- 
itants, and  in  the  succession  of  time  varied, 
probably  as  the  condition  of  society  varied. 

During  the  separation  and  the  hostility  of  the 
two  nations,  these  songs  and  ballads,  as  far  as 
our  imperfect  documents  enable  us  to  judge, 
were  chiefly  warlike  ; such  as  the  IJuntis  of 
Cheviot , and  the  Buttle  of  Ilorlow.  After  the 
union  of  the  two  crowns,  when  a certain  de- 
gree of  peace  and  of  tranquillity  look  place, 
the  rural  muse  of  Scotland  breathed  in  softer 
* Lord  Kaimes. 


210 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


accents.  “In  the  want  of  real  evidence  re- 
specting the  history  of  our  songs,”  says  Mr. 
Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre,  “recourse  may  be  had 
to  conjecture.  One  would  be  disposed  to  think 
that  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Scottish  tunes 
were  clothed  with  new  words  after  the  union 
of  the  crowns.  The  inhabitants  of  the  borders, 
who  had  formerly  been  warriors  from  choice, 
and  husbandmen  from  necessity,  either  quitted 
the  country,  or  were  transformed  into  real  shep- 
herds, easy  in  their  circumstances,  and  satisfi- 
ed with  their  lot.  Some  sparks  of  that  spirit 
of  chivalry  for  which  they  are  celebrated  by 
Froissart,  remained,  sufficient  to  inspire  eleva- 
tion of  sentiment  and  gallantry  towards  the  fair 
sex.  The  familiarity  and  kindness  which  had 
long  subsisted  between  the  gentry  and  the  peas- 
antry, could  not  all  at  once  be  obliterated,  and 
this  connection  tended  to  sweeten  rural  life.  In 
this  state  of  innocence,  ease  and  tranquillity  of 
mind,  the  love  of  poetry  and  music  would  still 
maintain  its  ground,  though  it  would  naturally 
assume  a form  congenial  to  the  more  peaceful 
state  of  society.  '1  he  minstrels,  whose  metri- 
cal tales  used  once  to  rouse  the  borderers  like 
the  trumpet’s  sound,  had  been  by  an  order  of 
legislature,  (in  .1.579,)  classed  with  rogues  and 
vagabonds,  and  attempted  to  be  suppressed. 
Knox  and  his  disciples  influenced  the  Scottish 
parliament,  but  contended  in  vain  with  her  ru- 
ral muse.  Amidst  our  Arcadian  vales,  proba- 
bly on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  or  some  of  its 
tributary  streams,  one  or  more  original  genius- 
es may  have  arisen,  who  w-ere  destined  to  give 
a new  turn  to  the  taste  of  their  countrymen. 
They  would  see  that  the  events  and  pursuits 
which  chequer  private  life  were  the  proper  sub- 
jects for  popular  poetry.  Love,  which  had 
formerly  held  a divided  sway  with  glory  and 
ambition,  bocame  now  the  master  passion  of 
the  soul.  To  portray  in  lively  and  delicate 
colors,  though  with  a hasty  hand,  the  hopes  and 
fears  that  agitate  the  breast  of  a love-sick  swain, 
or  forlorn  maiden,  affords  ample  scope  to  the 
rural  poet.  Love -songs,  of  which  Tibullus 
himself  would  not  have  been  ashamed,  might 
be  composed  by  an  uneducated  rustic  with  a 
-slight  tincture  of  letters ; or  if  in  these  songs, 
the  character  of  the  rustic  be  sometimes  as- 
sumed, the  truth  of  character,  and  the  language 
of  nature,  are  preserved.  With  unaffected  sim- 
plicity and  tenderness,  topics  are  urged,  most 
likely  to  soften  the  heart  of  a cruel  and  coy 
mistress,  or  to  regain  a fickle  lover.  Even  in 
such  as  are  of  a melancholy  cast,  a ray  of  hope 
breaks  through,  and  dispels  the  deep  and  set- 
tled gloom  which  characterizes  the  sweetest  of 
the  Highland  luinags,  or  vocal  airs.  Nor  are 
these  songs  all  plaintive  ; many  of  them  are 
lively  and  humorous,  and  some  appear  to  us 
coarse  and  indelicate.  They  seem,  however, 
genuine  descriptions  of  the  manners  of  an  en- 
ergetic and  sequestered  people  in  their  hours  of 
mirth  and  festivity,  though  in  their  portraits 
some  objects  are  brought  into  open  view,  which 
more  fastidious  painters  would  have  thrown 
into  shade. 

“As  those  rural  poets  sung  for  amusement, 
not  for  gain,  their  effusions  seldom  exceeded  a 
love-song,  or  a ballad  of  satire  or  humor,  which, 
like  the  works  of  the  elder  minstrels,  were  sel- 
dom committed  to  writing,  but  treasured  up  in 
the  memory  of  their  friends  and  neighbors. 


Neither  known  to  the  learned,  nor  patronized 
by  the  great,  these  rustic  bards  lived  and  died 
in  obscurity ; and  by  a strange  fatality,  their 
story,  and  even  their  very  names  forgotten.* 
When  proper  models  for  pastoral  songs  were 
produced,  there  would  be  no  want  of  imitators. 
To  succeed  in  this  species  of  composition, 
soundness  of  understanding,  and  sensibility  of 
heart  were  more  requisite  than  flights  of  imagi- 
nation or  pomp  of  numbers.  Great  changes 
have  certainly  taken  place  in  Scottish  song- 
writing, though  we  cannot  trace  the  steps  of 
this  change  ; and  few  of  the  pieces  admired  in 
Queen  Mary’s  time  are  now  to  be  discovered 
in  modern  collections.  It  is  possible,  though 
not  probable,  that  the  music  may  have  remain- 
ed nearly  the  same,  though  the  words  to  the 
tunes  were  entirely  remodelled. ”t 

These  conjectures  are  highly  ingenious.  It 
cannot,  however,  be  presumed,  that  the  stale 
of  ease  and  tranquillity  described  by  Mr.  Ram- 
say, took  place  among  the  Scottish  peasantry, 
immediately  on  the  union  of  the  crowns,  or 
indeed  during  the  greater  part  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  The  Scottish  nation,  through 
all  its  ranks,  was  deeply  agitated  by  the  civil 
wars,  and  the  religious  persecutions  which  suc- 
ceeded each  other  in  that  disastrous  period  ; it 
was  not  till  after  the  revolution  in  1688,  and  the 
subsequent  establishment  of  their  beloved  form 
of  church  government,  that  the  peasantry  of  the 
Lowlands  enjoyed  comparative  repose;  and  it 
is  since  that  period,  that  a great  number  of  the 
most  admired  Scottish  songs  have  been  produc- 
ed, though  the  tunes  to  which  they  are  sung, 
are  in  general  of  much  greater  antiquity.  It  is 
not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  the  peace  and 
security  derived  from  the  Revolution  and  the 
Union,  produced  a favorable  change  on  the 
rustic  poetry  of  Scotland  ; and  it  can  scarcely 
be  doubted,  that  the  institution  of  parish-schools 
in  1696,  by  which  a certain  degree  of  instruc- 
tion was  diffused  universally  among  the  peas- 
antry, contributed  to  this  happy  efiect. 

Soon  after  this  appeared  Allan  Ramsay,  the 
Scottish  Theocritus.  He  was  born  on  the  high 
mountains  that  divide  Clydesdale  and  Annan- 
dale,  in  a small  hamlet  by  the  banks  of  Gian- 
gonar,  a stream  which  descends  into  the  Clyde. 
The  ruins  of  this  hamlet  are  still  shown  to  the 
inquiring  traveler,  t He  was  the  son  of  a peas- 
ant, and  probably  received  such  instruction  as 
his  parish-school  bestowed,  and  the  poverty  of 
his  parents  admitted.il  Ramsay  made  his  ap- 

* In  the  Pepys  Collection,  there  are  a few  Scottish 
songs  of  the  last  century,  but  the  names  of  the  au- 
thors are  not  preserved. 

| Extract  of  a letter  from  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochter- 
tyre to  the  Editor,  September  11,  1799.  In  the  Bee, 
vol.  ii.  is  a communication  to  Mr.  Ramsay,  under 
the  signature  of  J.  Runcole,  which  enters  into  this 
subject  somewhat  more  at  large.  In  that  paper  he 
gives  his  reasons  for  questioning  the  antiquity  of 
the  most  celebrated  Scottish  songs. 

+ See  Campbell’s  History  of  Poetry  in  Scotland,  p. 
ia5. 

||  The  father  of  Ramsay  was.  it  is  said,  a workman 
in  the  lead-mines  of  the  Earl  of  llopetnn,at  Lead- 
hills.  The  workmen  in  those  mines  at  present  are  of 
a very  superior  character  to  miners  in  general.  They 
have  only  six  hours  of  labor  in  the  day.  and  have 
time  for  reading.  They  have  a common  library,  sup- 
ported by  contribution,  containing  several  thousand 
volumes.  When  this  was  instituted  1 have  not  learn- 
ed. These  miners  are  said  to  be  of  a very  sober  and 
moral  character:  Allan  Ramsay,  when  very  young. 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


211 


pearance  in  Edinburgh  in  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century,  in  the  humble  character  of  an 
apprentice  to  a barber,  or  peruke-maker;  he  was 
then  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  of  age.  By  de- 
grees he  acquired  notice  lor  his  social  disposi- 
tion. and  his  talent  for  the  composition  of  verses 
in  the  Scottish  idiom  ; and  changing  his  profes- 
sion for  that  of  a bookseller,  he  became  intimate 
with  many  of  the  literary,  as  well  as  of  the  gay 
and  fashionable  characters  of  his  time.*  Having 
published  a volume  of  poems  of  his  own  in  1721, 
which  was  favorably  received,  he  undertook  to 
make  a collection  of  ancient  Scottish  poems,  un- 
der the  title  of  the  Ever-Green,  and  was  after- 
wards encouraged  to  present  to  the  world  a col- 
lection of  Scottish  songs.  “ From  what  sources 
he  procured  them,”  says  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Och- 
tertyre,  “whether  from  tradition  or  manuscript, 
is  uncertain.  As  in  the  Ever-Green  he  made 
some  rash  attempts  to  improve  on  the  originals 
of  his  ancient  poems,  he  probably  used  still 
greater  freedom  with  the  songs  and  ballads.  The 
truth  cannot,  however,  be  known  on  this  point, 
till  manuscripts  of  the  songs  printed  by  him, 
more  ancient  than  the  present  century,  shall  be 
produced  ; or  access  be  obtained  to  his  own  pa- 
pers, if  they  are  still  in  existence.  To  several 
tunes  which  either  wanted  words,  or  had  words 
that  were  improper  or  imperfect,  he,  or  his 
friends,  adapted  verses  worthy  of  the  melodies 
they  accompanied,  worthy  indeed  of  the  golden 
age.  These  verses  were  perfectly  intelligible 
to  every  rustic,  yet  justly  admired  by  persons 
of  taste,  who  regarded  them  as  the  genuine  off- 
spring of  the  pastorial  muse.  In  some  respects 
Ramsay  had  advantages  not  possessed  by  poets 
writing  in  the  Scottish  dialect  in  our  days. 
Songs  in  the  dialect  of  Cumberland  or  Lancas- 
shire  could  never  be  popular,  because  these  dia- 
lects have  never  been  spoken  by  persons  of 
fashion.  But  till  the  middle  of  the  present  cen- 
tury, every  Scotsman,  from  the  peer  to  the  peas- 
ant, spoke  a truly  Doric  language.  It  is  true 
the  English  moralists  and  poets  were  by  this 
time  read  by  every  person  of  condition,  and  con- 
sidered as  the  standards  for  polite  composition. 
But,  as  national  prejudices  were  still  strong,  the 
busy,  the  learned,  the  gay,  and  the  fair,  con- 
tinued to  speak,  their  native  dialect,  and  that 
with  an  elegance  and  poignancy,  of  which  Scots- 
men of  the  present  day  can  have  no  just  notion. 
1 am  old  enough  to  have  conversed  with  Mr. 
Spinal,  of  Leuchat,  a scholar  and  a man  of  fash- 
ion, who  survived  all  the  members  of  the  Union 
Parliament,  in  which  he  had  a seat.  His  pro- 
nunciation and  phraseology  differed  as  much 
from  the  common  dialect,  as  the  language  of 
St.  James’s  from  that  of  Thames-street.  Had 
we  retained  a court  and  parliament  of  our  own, 
the  tongues  of  the  two  sister  kingdoms  would 
indeed  have  differed  like  the  Castilian  and  Por- 
tuguese ; but  each  would  have  had  its  own  clas- 
sics, not  in  a single  branch,  but  in  the  whole 
circle  of  literature. 

“ Ramsay  associated  with  the  men  of  wit  and 
fashion  of  his  day,  and  several  of  them  attempt- 

is  supposed  to  have  been  a washer  of  ore  in  these 
mines. 

f “He  was  coeval  with  Joseph  Mitchell,  and  his 
club  of  small  wits,  who  about  1719,  published  a very 
poor  m;sce!lany,  to  which  I)r.  Young,  the  author  of 
the  Night  Thoughts,  prefixed  a copy  of  verse3.”  Ex- 
tract of  a letter  from  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre  to 
the  Editor. 


ed  to  write  poetry  in  his  manner.  Persons  too 
idle  or  too  dissipated  to  think  of  compositions 
that  required  much  exertion,  succeeded  very 
happily  in  making  tender  sonnets  to  favorite 
tunes  in  compliment  to  their  mistresses,  and, 
transforming  themselves  into  impassioned  shep- 
herds, caught  the  language  of  the  characters 
they  assumed.  Thus,  about  the  year  1731,  Rob- 
ert Crawford  of  Auchinames,  wrote  the  modern 
song  of  Tweed  Side*  which  has  been  so  much 
admired.  In  1713,  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  the  first 
of  our  lawyers,  who  both  spoke  and  wrote  En- 
glish elegantly,  composed,  in  the  character  of  a 
love-sick  swain,  a beautiful  song,  beginning, 
M.y  sheep  I neglected,  1 lost  my  sheep-hook,  on 
the  marriage  of  his  mistress,  Miss  Forbes,  with 
Ronald  Crawford.  And  about  twelve  years  af- 
terwards, the  sister  of  Sir  Gilbert  wrote  the  an- 
cient words  to  the  tune  of  the  Flowers  of  the  For- 
est,+  and  supposed  to  allude  to  the  battle  of 
Flowden.  In  spite  of  the  double  rhyme,  it  is  a 
sweet,  and  though  in  some  parts  allegorical,  a 
natural  expression  of  national  sorrow.  The  more 
modem  words  to  the  same  tune,  beginning,  1 
have  seen  the  smiling  of  fortune  beguiling,  were 
written  long  before  by  Mrs.  Cockburn,  a woman 
of  great  wit,  who  outlived  all  the  first  group  of 
literati  of  the  present  century,  all  of  whom  were 
very  fond  of  her.  I was  delighted  with  her  com- 
pany, though,  when  I saw  her,  she  was  very 
old.  Much  did  she  know  that  is  now  lost.” 

In  addition  to  these  instances  of  Scottish  songs 
produced  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  present  cen- 
tury, may  be  mentioned  the  ballad  of  llardik- 
nut.e  by  Lady  Wardlaw  ; the  ballad  of  William 
and  Margaret ; and  the  song  entitled  The  Birks 
of  Endermay  by  Mallet ; the  love-song,  begin- 
ning, Forever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove,  produ- 
ced by  the  youthful  muse  of  Thomson  ; and  the 
exquisite  pathetic  ballad,  The  Braes  of  Yarrow , 
by  Hamilton  of  Bangour.  On  the  revival  of  let- 
ters in  Scotland,  subsequent  to  the  Union,  a very 
general  taste  seems  to  have  prevailed  for  the  na- 
tional songs  and  music.  “ For  many  years,” 
says  Mr.  Ramsay,  “the  singing  of  songs  was  the 
great  delight  of  the  higher  and  middle  order  of 
the  people,  as  well  as  of  the  peasantry  ; and 
though  a taste  for  Italian  music  has  interfered 
with  this  amusement,  it  is  still  very  prevalent. 
Between  forty  and  fifty  years  ago,  the  common 
people  were  not  only  exceedingly  fond  of  songs 
and  ballads,  but  of  metrical  history.  Often  have 
I,  in  my  cheerful  morn  of  youth,  listened  to 
them  with  delight,  when  reading  or  reciting  the 
exploits  of  VV  allace  and  Bruce  against  the  South- 
rons. Lord  Hailes  was  wont  to  call  Blind  Har- 
ry their  Bible,  he  being  their  great  favorite  next 
the  Scriptures.  When,  therefore,  one  in  the 
vale  of  life,  felt  the  first  emotions  of  genius,  he 
wanted  not  models  sui  generis.  But  though 
the  seeds  of  poetry  were  scattered  with  a plen- 
tiful hand  among  the  Scottish  peasantry,  the 
product  was  probably  like  that  of  pears  and  ap- 
ples— of  a thousand  that  spring  up.  nine  hun- 
dred and  fifty  are  so  bad  as  to  set  the  teeth  on 
an  edge  ; forty-five  or  more  are  passable  and 
useful  ; and  the  rest  of  an  exquisite  flavor.  Al- 
lan Ramsay  and  Burns  are  wildings  of  this  last 
description.  They  had  the  example  of  the  elder 
Scottish  poets  ; they  were  not  without  the  aid 

* Beginning,  “ What  beauties  does  Flora  disclose !” 

f Beginning,  “ I have  heard  a lilting  at  our  ewes- 
milking.” 


212 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


of  the  best  English  writers  ; and  what  was  of 
more  importance,  they  were  no  strangers  to  the 
book  of  nature,  and  the  book  of  God.” 

From  this  general  view,  it  is  apparent  that 
Allan  Ramsay  may  be  considered  as  in  a great 
measure  the  reviver  of  the  rural  poetry  of  his 
country.  His  collection  of  ancient  Scottish  po- 
ems, under  the  name  of  The  Ever- Green,  his 
collection  of  Scottish  songs,  and  his  own  poems, 
the  principal  of  which  is  the  Gentle  Shepherd, 
have  been  universally  read  among  the  peasantry 
of  his  country,  and  have  in  some  degree  super- 
seded the  adventures  of  Bruce  and  Wallace,  as 
recorded  by  Barbour  and  Blind  Harry.  Burns 
was  well  acquainted  with  all  these.  He  had  al- 
so before  him  the  poems  of  Fergusson  in  the 
Scottish  dialect,  which  have  been  produced  in 
our  own  times,  and  of  which  it  will  be  necessa- 
ry to  give  a short  account. 

Fergusson  was  born  of  parents  who  had  it  in 
their  power  to  procure  him  a liberal  education, 
a circumstance,  however,  which  in  Scotland 
implies  no  very  high  rank  in  society.  From  a 
well  written  and  apparently  authentic  account 
of  his  life,*  we  learn  that  he  spent  six  years  at 
the  schools  of  Edinburgh  and  l)undee,  and  sev- 
eral years  at  the  universities  of  Edinburgh  and 
St.  Andrews.  It  appears  that  he  was  at  one 
time  destined  for  the  Scottish  church  ; but  as  he 
advanced  towards  manhood,  he  renounced  that 
intention,  and  at  Edinburgh  entered  the  office 
of  a writer  to  the  signet,  a title  which  designates 
a separate  and  higher  order  of  Scottish  attor- 
neys. Fergusson  had  sensibility  of  mind,  a 
warm  and  generous  heart,  and  talents  for  socie- 
ty of  the  most  attractive  kind.  To  such  a man 
no  situation  could  be  more  dangerous  than  that 
in  which  he  was  placed.  The  excesses  into 
which  he  was  led,  impaired  his  feeble  constitu- 
tion, and  he  sunk  under  them  in  the  month  of 
October,  1774,  in  his  23rd  or  24  ill  year.  Burns 
was  not  acquainted  with  the  poems  of  this  youth- 
ful genius  when  he  himself  began  to  write  po- 
etry ; and  when  he  first  saw  them  he  had  re- 
nounced the  muses.  But  while  he  resided  in 
the  town  of  Irvine,  meeting  with  Fergusson' s 
Scottish  Foems,  he  informs  us  that  he  14  strung 
liis  lyre  anew  with  emulating  vigor.’  ’t  Touch- 
ed by  the  symphathy  originating  in  kindred  ge- 
nius, and  in  the  forebodings  of  similar  fortune. 
Burns  regarded  Fergusson  with  a partial  and  an 
affectionate  admiration.  Over  his  grave  he 
erected  a monument  as  has  already  been  men- 
tioned ; and  his  poems  he  has,  in  several  instan- 
ces, made  the  subjects  of  his  imitation. 

From  this  account  of  the  Scottish  poems 
known  to  Burns,  those  who  are  acquainted  with 
them  will  see  that  they  are  chiefly  humorous 
or  pathetic;  and  under  one  or  other  of  these  de- 
scriptions most  of  his  own  poems  will  class. 
Let  us  compare  him  with  his  predecessors  un- 
der each  of  these  points  of  view,  and  close  our 
examination  with  a few  general  observations. 

It  has  frequently  been  observed,  that  Scot- 
land has  produced,  comparatively  speaking,  few 
writers  who  have  excelled  in  humor.  But  this 
observation  is  true  only  when  applied  to  those 
who  have  continued  to  reside  in  their  own 
country,  and  have  confined  themselves  to  com- 

♦ In  the  supplement  to  the  “ Encycloptedia  I3ri- 
tannica.”  See  also, ,4  Campbell's  Introduction  to  the 
History  of  “ Poetry  in  Scotland,1'  p 288. 

f See  p.  ItiO. 


position  in  pure  English  ; and  in  these  circum- 
stances it  admits  of  an  easy  explanation.  The 
Scottish  poets,  who  have  written  in  the  dialect 
of  Scotland,  have  been  at  ail  times  remarkable 
for  dwelling  on  subjects  of  humor,  in  which, 
indeed,  many  of  them  have  excelled.  It  would 
be  easy  to  show,  that  the  dialect  of  Scotland 
having  become  provincial,  is  now  scarcely  suit- 
ed to  the  more  elevated  kinds  of  poetry.  If 
we  may  believe  that  the  poem  of  Christis  Kirk 
of  the  Grene  was  written  by  James  the  First 
of  Scotland,*  this  accomplished  monarch,  who 
had  received  an  English  education  under  the 
direction  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  and  who  bore 
arms  under  his  gallant  successor,  gave  the  mo- 
del on  which  the  greater  part  of  the  humorous 
productions  of  the  rustic  muse  of  Scotland  has 
been  formed.  Christis  Kirk  of  the  Grene  was 
reprinted  by  Ramsay,  somewhat  modernized 
in  the  orthography,  and  two  cantoes  were  added 
by  him,  in  which  he  attempts  to  carry  on  the 
design.  Hence  the  poem  of  King  James  is 
usually  printed  in  Ramsay’s  works.  The  roy- 
al bard  describes,  in  the  first  canto,  a rustic 
dance,  and  afterwards  a contention  in  archery, 

I ending  in  an  affray.  Ramsay  relates  the  restor- 
I ation  of  concord,  and  the  renewal  of  the  rural 
! sports,  with  the  humors  of  a country  wedding. 
Though  each  of  the  poets  describes  the  man- 
ners ot  his  respective  age,  yet  in  the  whole  piece 
there  is  a very  sufficient  uniformity  ; a strik- 
ing proof  of  the  identity  of  character  in  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry,  at  the  two  periods,  distant  from 
each  other  three  hundred  years.  It  is  an  hon- 
orable distinction  to  this  body  of  men,  that  their 
character  and  manners,  very  little  embellished, 
have  been  found  to  be  susceptible  of  an  amus- 
ing and  interesting  species  of  poetry  ; and  it 
must  appear  not  a little  curious,  that  the  single 
nation  of  modern  Europe,  which  possesses  an 
original  rural  poetry,  should  have  received  the 
model,  followed  by  their  rustic  bards,  from  the 
monarch  on  the  throne. 

The  two  additional  cantoes  of  Christis  Kirk 
of  the  Grene,  written  by  Ramsay,  though  ob- 
jectionable in  point  of  delicacy,  are  among  the 
happiest  of  his  productions.  His  chief  excel- 
lence, indeed,  lay  in  the  description  of  rural 
characters,  incidents,  and  Scenery  ; for  he  did 
not  possess  any  very  high  powers  either  of  im- 
agination or  of  understanding.  He  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  their 
lives  and  opinions.  The  subject  was  in  a great 
measure  new  ; his  talents  were  equal  to  the 
subject  ; and  he  has  shown  that  it  may  be  hap- 
pily adapted  to  pastoral  poetry.  In  his  Gentle 
Shepherd  the  characters  are  delineated  from  na- 
ture, the  descriptive  parts  are  in  the  genuine 
style  of  beautiful  simplicity,  the  passions  and 
afiections  of  rural  life  are  finely  portrayed,  and 
I the  heart  is  pleasingly  interested  in  the  happi- 
ness that  is  bestowed  on  innocence  and  virtue. 
Throughout  the  whole  there  is  an  air  of  reali- 
ty which  the  most  careless  reader  cannot  but 
perceive;  and  in  fact,  no  poem  ever,  perhaps, 
acquired  so  high  a reputation,  in  which  truth 

* Notwithstanding  the  evidence  produced  on  this 
subject  by  Mr.  Tytler,  the  Editor  acknowledges  his 
being  somewhat  of  a sceptic  on  this  point.  Sir  Da- 
vid Dalrymple  inclines  to  the  opinion  that  it  was 
written  by  his  successor,  Janies  the  Fifth.  There  are 
difficulties  attending  this  supposition  also.  But  on 
1 the  subject  of  Scottish  Antiquities,  the  Editor  is  an 
1 incompetent  judge. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


213 


received  so  so  little  embellishment  from  the 
imagination.  In  his  pastoral  songs,  and  in  his 
rural  tales,  Ramsay  appears  to  less  advantage, 
indeed,  but  still  with  considerable  attrac'ion. 
The  story  of  the  Monk  and  the  Miller's  Wife, 
though  somewhat  licentious,  may  rank  with 
the  happiest  productions  of  Prior  or  La  Fon- 
taine. But  when  he  attempts  subjects  from 
higher  life,  and  aims  at  purer  English  compo- 
sition, he  is  feeble  and  uninteresting,  and  sel- 
dom ever  reaches  mediocrity.*  Neither  are 
his  familiar  epistles  and  elegies  in  the  Scottish 
dialect  entitled  to  much  approbation.  Though 
Fergusson  had  higher  powers  of  imagination 
than  Ramsay,  his  genius  was  not  of  the  high- 
est order  ; nor  did  his  learning,  which  was  con- 
siderable, improve  his  genius.  Mis  poems 
written  in  pure  English,  in  which  he  often  fol- 
lows classical  models,  though  superior  to  the 
English  poems  of  Ramsay,  seldom  rise  above 
mediocrity  ; but  in  those  composed  in  the  Scot- 
tish dialect  he  is  often  very  successful.  He 
was  in  general,  however,  less  happy  than  Ram- 
say in  the  subjects  of  his  muse.  As  he  spent 
the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  Edinburgh,  and 
wrote  for  his  amusement  in  the  intervals  of 
business  or  dissipation,  his  Scottish  poems  are 
chietly  founded  on  the  incidents  of  a town  life, 
which,  though  they  are  susceptible  of  humor, 
do  not  admit  of  those  delineations  of  scenery 
and  manners,  which  vivify  the  rural  poetry  of 
Ramsay,  and  which  so  agreeably  amuse  the 
fancy  and  interest  the  heart.  The  town-ec- 
logues of  Fergusson,  if  we  may  so  denominate 
them,  are  however  faithful  to  nature,  and  often 
distinguished  by  a very  happy  vein  of  humor. 
His  poems  entitled.  The  Daft  Days,  The  Kins' s 
Birth-day  in  Edinburgh,  Leith  Daces,  and  The 
Hallow  Fair,  will  justify  this  character.  In 
these,  particularly  in  the  last,  he  imitated  Chris- 
tis  Kirk  of  the  Grene,  as  Ramsay  had  done 
before  him.  Ilis  Address  to  the  Tronkirk  Bell 
is  an  exquisite  piece  of  humor,  which  Burns 
has  scarcely  excelled.  In  appreciating  the  ge- 
nius of  Fergusson,  it  ought  to  be  recollected, 
that  his  poems  are  the  careless  effusions  of  an 
irregular  but  amiable  young  man,  who  wrote 
for  the  periodical  papers  of  the  day,  and  who 
died  in  early  youth.  Had  his  life  been  prolong- 
ed under  happier  circumstances  of  fortune,  he 
would  probably  have  risen  to  much  higher  rep- 
utation. He  might  have  excelled  in  rural  poe- 
try ; fur  though  liis  professed  pastorals  on  the 
established  Sicilian  model,  are  stale  and  unin- 
teresting, The  Farmer's  Ingle.  + which  may  be 
considered  as  a Scottish  pastoral,  is  the  happi- 
est of  all  his  productions,  and  certainly  was 
the  archetype  of  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night. 
Fergusson,  and  more  especially  Burns,  have 
shown  that  the  character  and  manners  of  the 
peasantry  of  Scotland  of  the  present  times,  are 
as  well  adapted  to  poetry,  as  in  the  davs  of  Ram- 
say, or  of  the  author  of  Christis  Kirk  of  the 
Grene. 

The  humor  of  Burns  is  of  a richer  vein  than 
that  of  Ramsay  or  Fergusson,  both  of  whom, 
as  he  himself  informs  us,  he  had  “frequently 
in  his  eye,  but  rather  with  a view  to  kindle  at 
their  flame,  than  to  servile  imitation. His 
descriptive  powers,  whether  the  objects  on 
which  they  are  employed  he  comic  or  serious. 

* “ The  Morning  Interview,”  &c. 

t The  farmer’s  fire-aide.  J See  Appendix. 


animate  or  inanimate,  are  of  the  highest  order. 
A superiority  of  1 his  kind  is  essential  to  every 
species  of  poetical  excellence.  In  one  *of  his 
earlier  poems,  his  plan  seems  to  be  to  inculcate 
a lesson  of  contentment  in  the  lower  classes  of 
society,  by  showing  that  their  superiors  are 
neither  much  better  nor  happier  than  them- 
selves; and  this  he  chooses  to  execute  in  a 
form  of  a dialogue  between  two  dogs.  He  in- 
troduces this  dialogue  by  an  account  of  the 
persons  and  characters  of  the  speakers.  The 
first,  whom  he  has  named  Cccsar,  is  a dog  of 
condition  : 

4i  Ilis  locked,  lettered,  braw  brass  collar, 
Show’d  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar.” 

High-bred  though  he  is,  he  is  however  full  of 
condescension  : 

‘‘At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  sniiddie, 

Mae  tawted  tyke,  t ho’  e’er  sae  duddic, 

But  he  wad  stawn’t,  as  glad  to  see  him, 

And  stroan’t  on  stanes  an ’ hillocks  wi’  Atm.” 

The  other,  Luath,  is  a “plowman’s  collie,” 
but  a cur  of  a good  heart  and  a sound  under- 
standing : 

“ Ilis  honest,  sonsie,  baws’nt  face, 

Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place  ; 

Ilis  breast  was  white,  his  towsy  back 
Weel  clad  wi’  coat  o’  glossy  black. 

His  gaweie  tail,  wi ’ upward  curl, 

Hung  o'er  his  hurdles  wi’  a swurl." 

Never  were  turn  dogs  so  exquisitely  delinea- 
ted. Their  gambols  before  they  sit  down  to 
moralize,  are  described  with  an  equal  degree 
of  happiness  ; and  through  the  whole  dialogue, 
the  character,  as  well  as  the  different  condition 
of  the  two  speakers,  is  kept  in  view.  The 
speech  of  Luath,  in  which  he  enumerates  the 
comforts  of  the  poor,  gives  the  following  ac- 
count of  their  merriment  on  the  first  day  of 
the  year : 

“ That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds; 

The  nappy  reeks  wi’  mantling  ream, 

And  sheds  a heart- inspiring  steam  ; 

The  luntin  pipe,  and  stieeshin  m II, 

Are  handed  round  wi’  rielit  guid-will  : 

The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse, 

The  young  anes  rantin  thro’  the  house. 

My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 

That  I for  joy  hue  but  kit  tot'  them." 

Of  all  the  animals  who  have  moralized  on 
human  affairs  since  the  days  of  .Esop,  the  dog 
seems  best  entitled  to  this  privilege,  as  well 
from  liis  superior  sagacity,  as  from  his  being, 
more  than  any  other,  the  friend  and  associate 
of  man.  The  dogs  of  Burns,  excepting  in  their 
talent  for  moralizing,  are  downright  dogs  ; and 
not  like  the  horses  of  Swift,  or  the  Hind  arid 
Panther  of  Dryden,  men  in  the  shape  of  brutes. 
It  is  this  circumstance  that  heightens  the  hu- 
mor of  the  dialogue.  The  “ twa  dogs”  are 
constantly  kept  before  our  eyes,  and  the  con- 
trast between  their  form  and  character  as  dogs, 
and  the  sagacity  of  their  conversation,  height- 
ens the  humor  and  deepens  the  impression  of 
the  poet’s  satire.  Though  in  this  poem  the 
chief  excellence  may  be  considered  as  humor, 
yet  great  talents  are  displayed  in  its  composi- 
tion ; the  happiest  powers  of  description  and  the 
deepest  insight  into  the  human  heart.*  It  is 

* When  this  poem  first  appeared.  it  was  thought 
by  soim;  very  surpi ising  that  a peasant,  who  had  not 
an  opportunity  of  associating  even  with  a simple 


214 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


seldom,  however,  that  the  humor  of  Burns  ap- 
ears  in  so  simple  a form.  The  liveliness  of 
is  sensibility  frequently  impels  him  to  intro- 
duce into  subjects  of  humor,  emotions  of  ten- 
derness or  of  pity  ; and  where  occasion  admits, 
he  is  sometimes  carried  on  to  exert  the  higher 
powers  of  imagination.  In  such  instances  he 
leaves  the  society  of  Ramsay  and  of  Fergus- 
son, 'and  associates  himself  with  the  masters 
of  English  poetry,  whose  language  he  fre- 
quently assumes. 

Of  the  union  of  tenderness  and  humor,  ex- 
amples may  be  found  in  The  Death  and  Dying 
Words  of  -poor  JSlailie,  in  The  Auld  Farmer's 
New-  Year's  Morning  Salutation  to  his  Mare 
Maggie,  and  in  many  of  his  other  poems.  The 
praise  of  whisky  is  a favorite  subject  with 
Burns.  To  this  he  dedicates  his  poem  of 
Scotch  Drink.  After  mentioning  its  cheering 
influence  in  a variety  of  situations,  he  de- 
scribes, with  singular  liveliness  and  power  of 
fancy,  its  stimulating  effects  on  the  blacksmith 
working  at  his  forge  : 

“ Nae  mercy,  then,  for  airn  or  steel ; 

The  brawnie,  bainie,  plowman  chiei, 

Brings  hard  owrehip,  wi’  sturdy  wheel, 

The  strong  fore  hammer, 

Till  block  an’  studdie  ring  an’  reel 
Wi’  dinsorne  clamor.” 

On  another  occasion,*  choosing  to  exalt  whis- 
ky above  wine,  he  introduces  a comparison 
between  the  natives  of  more  genial  climes,  to 
whom  the  vine  furnishes  their  beverage,  and 
his  own  countrymen  who  drink  the  spirit  of 
malt.  The  description  of  the  Scotsmen  is  hu- 
morous : 

“ But  bring  a Scotsman  frae  his  hill, 

Clap  in  his  cheek  a’  Highland  gill, 

Say  such  is  Royal  George’s  will, 

An’  there ’s  the  foe, 

He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 
Twa  at  a blow.” 

Here  the  notion  of  danger  rouses  the  imagi- 
nation of  the  poet.  He  goes  on  thus  : 

“ Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doublings  tease  him; 
Death  comes,  wi’  fearless  eye  he  sees  him  ; 

Wi’  bluidy  hand  a welcome  gies  him; 

An’  when  he  fa’s, 

His  latest  draught  o’  breathing  lea’es  him 
In  faint  huzzas.” 

Again,  however,  he  sinks  into  humor,  and 
concludes  the  poem  with  the  following  most 
laughable,  but  most  irreverent  apostrophe  : 

“ Scotland,  my  auld  respected  Wither! 

Tho’  whiles  ye  moistify  your  leather, 

Till  whare  ye  sit.  on  craps  o’  heather, 

Ye  tine  your  dam  : 

Freedom  and  whisky  gang  thegither, 

Tak  off  your  dram  ! 

Of  this  union  of  humor  with  the  higher  pow- 

gentleman,  should  have  been  able  lo  portray  the 
character  of  high-life  with  such  accuracy.  And 
when  it  was  recollected  that  he  had  probably  been 
at  the  races  of  Ayr,  where  nobility  si s well  as  gentry 
w'ere  to  be  seen,  it  was  concluded  that  the  race- 
ground  had  been  the  field  of  his  observation.  This 
was  sagacious  enough  ; but  it  did  not  require  such 
instruction  to  inform  Burns,  that  human  nature  is 
essentially  the  same  in  the  hiah  and  the  low  ; and 
a genius  which  comprehends  the  human  mind,  easi- 
ly comprehends  the  accidental  varieties  introduced 
by  situation. 

♦“The  Author’s  Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to  the 
Scotch  Representatives  in  Parliament.” 


ers  of  imagination,  instances  may  be  found  in 
the  poem  entitled  Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook,  and 
in  almost  every  stanza  of  the  Address  to  the 
Veil,  one  of  the  happiest  of  his  productions. 
After  reproaching  this  terrible  being  with  all 
his  “ doings”  and  misdeeds,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  passes  through  a series  of  Scottish 
superstitions,  and  rises  at  times  into  a high 
strain  of  poetry ; he  concludes  this  address, 
delivered  in  a tone  of  great  familiarity,  not  al- 
together unmixed  with  apprehension,  in  the 
following  words : 

“ But,  fare  ye  weel,  auld  Nickle  ben  ! 

O wad  you  tak  a thought  an’  men’! 

Ye  aiLlins  might— 1 dinna  ken — 

Si  ill  hae  a stake — 

I’m  wae  to  ihink  upo’  yon  den 
E’en  for  your  sake !” 

Humor  and  tenderness  are  here  so  happily 
intermixed,  that  it  is  impossible  to  say  which 
preponderates. 

Fergusson  wrrote  a dialogue  between  the 
Causeway  and  the  Plainsloncs*  of  Edinburgh. 
This  probably  suggested  to  Burns  his  dialogue 
between  the  Old  and  the  New  bridge  over  the 
river  Ayr.t  The  nature  of  such  subjects  re- 
quires that  they  shall  be  treated  humorously, 
and  Fergusson  has  attempted  nothing  beyond 
this.  Though  the  Causeway  and  the  Plain- 
stones  talk  together,  no  attempt  is  made  10  per- 
sonify the  speakers.  A “cadie’T  heard  the 
conversation,  and  reported  it  to  the  poet. 

In  the  dialogue  between  the  Brigs  of  Ayr, 
Burns  himself  is  the  auditor,  and  the  time  and 
occasion  on  which  it  occurred  is  related  with 
great  circumstantiality.  The  poet,  “ pressed 
by  care,”  or  “ inspired  by  whim,”  had  left  his 
bed  in  the  town  of  Ayr,  and  wandered  out 
alone  in  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  a w-inter 
night,  to  the  mouih  of  the  river,  where  the 
stillness  was  interrupted  only  by  the  rushing 
sound  of  the  influx  of  the  tide.  It  was  after 
midnight.  The  Dungeon-clock II  had  struck 
two,  and  the  sound  had  been  repeated  by  Wal- 
lace-Tower.ll  All  else  was  hushed.  The 
moon  shone  brightly,  and 

“The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 

Crept,  gently  crusting,  o'er  the  glittering  stream.” — 

In  this  situation  the  listening  bard  hears  the 
“ clanging  sugh”  of  wings  moving  through  the 
air,  and  speedily  he  perceives  two  beings,  rear- 
ed the  one  on  the  Old,  the  other  on  the  New 
Bridge,  and  ■whose  conversation  with  each 
oiher  he  rehearses.  The  genii  enter  into  a 
comparison  of  the  edifices  over  which  they 
preside,  and  afterwards,  as  is  usual  between  the 
old  and  young,  compare  modern  characters  and 
manners  with  those  of  past  times.  They  differ, 
as  may  be  expected,  and  taunt  and  scold  each 
other  in  Broad  Scotch.  This  conversation, 
which  is  certainly  humorous,  may  be  consider- 
ed as  the  proper  business  of  the  poem.  As 
the  debate  runs  high,  and  threatens  serious 
consequences,  all  at  once  it  is  interrupted  by  a 
new  scene  of  wonders : 

“ All  before  their  s;ght 

A fairy  train  appeared  in  order  bright  ; 

Adovvii  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  danc’d ; 

♦The  middle  of  the  street,  and  the  side-wav. 

+ The  Brigs  of  Ayr,  Poems,  p.  9.  JA  messenger. 

11  The  two  steeples  of  Ayr. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanc’d  ; 
They  footed  o'er  the  watery  glass  so  neat. 

The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet ; 

\Vh  le  arts  of  M nsirelsy  among  them  rung, 

And  soul-ennobiing  Bards  heroic  sung.” 

* # # # 

“The  Genius  of  the  Stream  in  front  appears — 

A venerable  chief,  advanc’d  in  years  ; 

His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crown’d, 

His  manly  leg  with  garter-tangle  bound.” 

Next  follow  a number  of  other  allegorical 
beings,  among  whom  are  the  four  seasons, 
Rural  Joy,  Plenty,  Hospitality,  and  Courage  : 

“Benevolence,  with  mild  benignant  air, 

A female  form,  came  from  the  tow'rs  of  Stair  ; 
Learning  and  Wealth  in  equal  measures  trode, 

From  simple  Catrine.  their  long-lov’d  abode  ; 

Last,  white-robed  Peace,  crown’d  with  a hazel- 
wreath. 

To  rustic  Agriculture  rid  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instrument  of  Death  ; 

At  sight  of  whom  our  sprites  forgot  their  kindling 
wratli.” 

This  poem,  irregular  and  imperfect  as  it  is, 
displays  various  and  powerful  talents,  and  may 
serve  to  illustrate  the  genius  of  Bums.  In 
particular,  it  affords  a striking  instance  of  his 
being  carried  beyond  his  original  purpose  by 
the  powers  of  imagination. 

In  Fergusson’s  poems,  the  Plainstones  and 
Causeway  contrast  the  characters  of  the  differ- 
ent persons  who  walked  upon  them.  Burns 
probably  conceived,  that  by  a dialogue  between 
the  Old  and  New  Bridge,  he  might  form  a hu- 
morous contrast  between  ancient  and  modern 
manners  in  the  town  of  Ayr.  Such  a dialogue 
could  only  be  supposed  to  pass  in  the  stillness 
of  night ; and  this  led  our  poet  to  a description 
of  a midnight  scene,  which  excited  in  a high 
degree  the  powers  of  his  imagination.  During 
the  whole  dialogue  the  scenery  is  present  to 
his  fancy,  and  at  length  it  suggests  to  him  a 
fairy  dance  of  aerial  beings,  under  the  beams 
of  the  moon,  by  which  the  wrath  of  the  Genii 
of  the  Brigs  of  Ayr  is  appeased. 

Incongruous  as  the  different  parts  of  this 
poem  are,  it  is  not  an  incongruity  that  dis- 
pleases ; and  we  have  only  to  regret  that  the 
poet  did  not  bestow  a little  pains  in  making 
the  figures  more  correct,  and  in  smoothing  the 
versification. 

The  epistles  of  Burns,  in  which  may  be  in- 
cluded his  Dedication  to  G.  H.  Esq.,  discover, 
like  his  other  writings,  the  powers  of  a superi- 
or understanding.  They  display  deep  insight 
into  human  nature,  a gay  and  happy  strain  of 
reflection,  great  independence  of  sentiment,  and 
generosity  of  heart.  It  is  to  be  regretted,  that 
in  his  Holy  Fair , and  in  some  of  his  other  po- 
ems, his  humor  degenerates  into  personal  satire, 
and  that  it  is  not  sufficiently  guarded  in  other 
respects.  The  Halloween  of  Burns  is  free 
from  every  objection  of  this  sort.  It  is  inter- 
esting, not  merely  from  its  humorous  descrip- 
tion of  manners,  but  as  it  records  the  spells  and 
charms  used  on  the  celebration  of  a festival, 
now,  even  in  Scotland,  falling  into  neglect,  but 
which  was  once  observed  over  the  greater  part 
of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.*  These  charms 
are  supposed  to  afford  an  insight  into  futurity, 
especially  on  the  subject  of  marriage,  the  most 

*In  Ireland  it  is  still  celebrated.  It  is  not  quite 
in  disuse  in  Wales. 


215 

interesting  event  of  rural  life.  In  the  1 Tallow- 
cen , a female  in  performing  one  of  the  spells, 
has  occasion  to  go  out  by  moonlight  to  dip 
her  shift-sleeve  into  a stream  running  towards 
the  south.*  It  was  not  necessary  for  Burns  to 
give  a description  of  this  stream.  But  it  was 
the  character  of  his  ardent  mind  to  pour  forth 
not  merely  what  the  occasion  required,  but 
what  it  admitted;  and  t he  temptation  to  describe 
so  beautiful  a natural  object  by  moonlight, 
was  not  to  be  resisted  ■ 

“ Whyles  o’er  a linn  the  burnie  plays, 

As  tliro’  the  glen  it  vvimpl’t ; 

Whyles  round  a rocky  scar  it  strays  ; 

Whyles  in  a vviel  it  dimpl’t ; 

Whyles  glitter’d  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi’  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 

Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel. 

Unseen  that  night.” 

Those  who  understand  the  Scottish  dialect 
will  allow  this  to  be  one  of  the  finest  instances 
of  description  which  the  records  of  poetry  af- 
ford. Though  of  a very  different  nature,  it  may 
be  compared  in  point  of  excellence  with  Thom- 
son’s description  of  a river  swollen  by  ihe  rains 
of  winter,  bursting  through  the  straits  that 
confine  its  torrent,  “ boiling,  wheeling,  foam- 
ing, and  thundering  along.’  t 

In  pastoral,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  in 
rural  poetry  of  a serious  nature,  Burns  excelled 
equally  as  in  that  of  a humorous  kind;  and, 
using  less  of  the  Scottish  dialect  in  his  serious 
poems,  he  becomes  more  generally  intelligible. 
It  is  difficult  to  decide  whether  the  Address  to 
a Mouse,  whose  nest  was  turned  tip  with  the 
plow , should  be  considered  as  serious  or  comic. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  the  poem  is  one  of  the  hap- 
piest and  most  finished  of  his  productions.  If 
we  smile  at  the  “ bickering  battle”  of  this  lit- 
tle flying  animal,  it  is  a smile  of  tenderness  and 
pity.  1 lie  descriptive  part  is  admirable  ; tho 
moral  reflections  beautiful,  and  arising  directly 
out  of  the  occasion  ; and  in  the  conclusion  there 
is  a deep  melancholy,  a sentiment  of  doubt  and 
dread,  that  rises  to  the  sublime.  The  Address 
to  a Mountain  Daisy,  turned  down  with  the 
plow,  is  a poem  of  the  same  nature,  though 
somewhat  inferior  in  point  of  originality,  aa 
well  as  in  the  interest  produced.  To  extract 
out  of  incidents  so  common,  and  seemingly  so 
trivial  as  these,  so  fine  a train  of  sentiment  and 
imagery,  is  the  surest  proof,  as  well  as  the 
most  brilliant  triumph,  of  original  genius. 
The  Vision,  in  two  cantoes,  from  which  a 
beautiful  extract  is  taken  by  Mr.  Mackenzie, 
in  the  97th  number  of  The  Lounger,  is  a poem 
of  great,  and  various  excellence.  The  opening, 
in  which  the  poet  describes  his  own  state  of 
mind,  retiring  in  the  evening,  wearied  from  the 
labors  of  the  day,  to  moralize  on  his  conduct 
and  prospects,  is  truly  interesting.  The  cham- 
ber, if  we  may  so  term  it,  in  which  he  sits 
down  to  muse,  is  an  exquisite  painting  : 

“There,  lanely.  by  the  ingle-check 
I sat  and  ey’d  the  spewing  reek, 

That  fill’d,  wi’  hoast-provoking  smeek, 

The  auhl  clay  biggin  ; 

An’  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 
About  the  r.ggiri.” 

To  reconcile  to  our  imagination  the  entrance 

* See  Halloween,”  Stanzas  xxiv.  and  xxv. 

t See  Thomson’s  Winter. 


216 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


of  an  aerial  being  into  a mansion  of  this  kind, 
required  the  powers  of  Burns — he  however  suc- 
ceeds. Coila  enters,  and  her  countenance,  at- 
titude, and  dress,  unlike  those  of  ether  spirit- 
ual beings,  are  distinctly  portrayed.  To  the 
painting  on  her  mantle,  on  which  is  depicted 
the  most  striking'seenery.  as  well  as  the  most 
distinguished  characters,  of  his  native  country, 
some  exceptions  may  be  made.  The  mantle 
of  Coila,  like  the  cup  of  Thyrsis,*  and  the 
shield  of  Achilles,  is  too  much  crowded  with 
figures,  and  some  of  the  objects  represented 
upon  it  are  scarcely  admissible,  according  to 
the  principles  of  design.  The  generous  tem- 
perament of  Burns  led  him  into  these  exuber- 
ances. In  his  second  edition  he  enlarged  the 
number  of  figures  originally  introduced,  that 
he  might  include  objects  to  which  he  was  at- 
tached by  sentiments  of  affection,  gratitude,  or 
patriotism.  The  second  Duan,  or  canto  of 
this  poem,  in  which  Coila  describes  her  own 
nature  and  occupations,  particularly  her  super- 
intendence of  his  infant  genius,  and  in  which 
tshe  reconciles  him  to  the  character  of  a bard, 
is  an  elevated  and  solemn  strain  of  poetry, 
ranking  in  all  respects,  excepting  the  harmony 
of  numbers,  with  the  higher  productions  of  the 
English.  The  concluding  stanza,  compared 
with  that  already  quoted,  will  show  to  what  a 
height  Burns  rises  in  this  poem,  from  the  point 
at  which  he  set  out  : 

'•'•And  wear  thou  this—slne  solemn  said. 

And,  bound  the  Holly  round  my  head  : 

The  polish’d  leaves,  and  berries  red, 

Did  rustling  play  ; 

And,  like  a passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away.” 

In  various  poems,  Burns  has  exhibited  the 
picture  of  a mind  under  the  deep  impression 
of  real  sorrow.  The  Lament,  the  Ode  to  Ruin, 
Despondency,  and  Winter,  a Dirge,  are  of  this 
character.  In  the  first  of  these  poems,  ihe  8th 
stanza,  which  describes  a sleepless  night  from 
anguish  of  mind,  is  particularly  striking.  Burns 
often  indulged  in  those  melancholy  views  of  the 
nature  and  condition  of  man.  which  are  so  con- 
genial to  the  temperament  of  sensibility.  The 
poem  entitled  Man  was  mode  to  Mourn,  affords 
an  instance  of  this  kind,  and  The  Winter  Night 
is  of  the  same  description.  The  iast  is  highly 
characteristic,  both  of  the  temper  of  mind,  and 
of  the  condition  of  Burns.  It  begins  with  a 
description  of  a dreadful  storm  on  a night  in 
winter.  The  poet  represents  himself  os  lying 
in  bed,  and  listening  to  its  howling.  In  this 
situation  he  naturally  turns  his  thoughts  to  the 
owrie  Cattle  and  the  silly  Sheep,  exposed  to  all 
the  violence  of  the  tempest.  Having  lamented 
their  fate,  he  proceeds  in  the  following  man- 
ner : 

‘•Ilk  happing  bird— wee.  helpless  thing  ! 

That,  in  the  merry  months  o’  spring, 

Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing. 

What  ’comes  o’  thee  1 
Whare  wilt  thou  cow 'r  thy  cluttering  wing, 

An*  close  thy  e’e  V’ 

Other  reflections  of  the  same  nature  occur  to 
his  mind;  and  as  the  midnight  moon,  “muf- 
fled in  clouds,”  casts  her  dreary  light  on  his 
window,  thoughts  of  a darker  and  more  mel- 
ancholy nature  crowd  upon  him.  In  this  stale 

*See  the  first  Idylliun  of  Theocritus. 


of  mind,  he  hears  a voice  pouring  through  the 
gloom  a solemn  and  plaintive  strain  of  reflec- 
tion. The  mourner  compares  the  fury  of  the 
elements  with  that  of  man  to  his  brother  man, 
and  finds  the  former  light  in  the  balance. 

“See  stern  oppression’s  iron  grip, 

Or  mad  ambition’s  gory  hand, 

Sending,  like  blood  hounds  from  the  slip. 

Wo,  want,  and  murder,  o’er  the  land  I” 

He  pursues  this  train  of  reflection  through  a 
variety  of  particulars,  in  the  course  of  which 
he  introduces  the  following  animated  apostro- 
phe : 

Oh  ye  ! who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down. 

Feel  not  a want  but  what  yourselves  create,* 

Think,  for  a moment,  on  his  Wretched  fate. 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  ! 

Ill-satisfi’d  keen  Nature’s  clam’rous  call. 

Stretch’d  on  his  straw  he  lays  himself  to  steep. 

While  lin  o’  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky  wall. 

Chid  o’er  his  slumbers  piles  the  dril'ty  heap  ! 

The  strain  of  sentiment  which  runs  through 
the  poem  is  noble,  though  the  execution  is  un- 
equal, and  the  versification  defective. 

Among  the  serious  poems  of  Burns,  The 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night  is  perhaps  entitled  to 
th'c  first  rank.  The  Farmer's  Ingle  of  Fergus- 
son  evidently  suggested  the  plan  of  this  poem, 
as  has  already  been  mentioned;  but  after  t he  plan 
was  formed,  Burns  trusted  entirely  to  his  own 
powers  for  the  execution.  Fergusson’s  poem 
is  certainly  very  beautiful.  It  has  all  the  charms 
which  depend  on  rural  characters  and  manners 
happily  portrayed,  and  exhibited  under  circum- 
stances highly  grateful  to  the  imagination.  The 
Farmer's  Jngle  begins  with  describing  the  re- 
turn of  evening.  The  toils  of  the  day  are  over, 
and  the  farmer  retires  to  hts  comfortable  fire- 
side. The  reception  which  he  and  his  men- 
servants  receive  from  the  careful  house-wife, 
is  pleasingly  described.  After  their  supper  is 
over,  they  begin  to  talk  on  the  rural  events  of 
the  day  : 

“ Bout  kirk  .and  market  eke  their  tales  gae  on. 
How  Jock  wooed  Jenny  here  to  be  li is  bride  ; 

And  there  how  Marion  for  a bastard  son, 

Upo’  the  cutty-stool  was  forced  to  ride. 

The  waefu’  scauld  o’  our  Mess  John  to  hide  ’’ 

The  “ Guidame1’  is  next  introduced  as  form- 
ing a circle  round  the  fire,  in  the  midst  of  her 
grand-children,  and  while  she  spins  from  the 
rock,  and  the  spindle  plays  on  her  “ russet  lap,” 
she  is  relating  to  the  young  ones  talcs  of  witch- 
es and  ghosts.  The  poet  exclaims  : 

“O  mock  na  this,  my  fr'ends!  but  rather  mourn, 
Ye  in  life’s  bra  west  spring  wi’  reason  clear, 

Wi’  eihl  our  idle  fancies  a’  return 
And  dim  our  dolnu’  days  wi’  bairnly  fear  ; 

The  mind’s  aye  cradled  when  Ihe  grave  is  near.” 

In  the  meantime  the  farmer,  wearied  with 
the  fatigues  of  the  day,  stretches  himseif  at 
length  on  the  Settle,  a sort  of  rustic  couch, 
which  extends  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  and  the 
cat  and  house-dog  leap  upon  it  to  receive  his 
caresses.  Here,  resting  at  his  ease,  he  gives 
his  directions  to  his  men-servants  for  the  suc- 
ceeding day.  The  house-wife  follows  his  ex- 
ample, and  gives  her  orders  to  the  maidens. 
By  degrees  the  oil  in  the  cruise  begins  to  lail  ; 
the  fire  runs  low  ; sleep  steals  on  this  rustic 
group  ; and  they  move  off’ to  enjoy  their  peace- 
ful slumbers.  The  poet  concludes  by  bestow- 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ing  his  blessings  on  the  “ husbandman  and  all 
his  tribe.” 

This  is  an  original  and  truly  interesting  pas- 
toral. It  possesses  everything  required  in  this 
species  of  composition.  We  might  have  per- 
haps said  everything  that  it  admits,  had  not 
Burns  written  his  Colter's  Saturday  Night. 

The  cottager  returning  from  his  labors,  has 
no  servants  to  accompany  him,  to  partake  of 
his  fare,  or  to  receive  his  instructions.  The 
circle  winch  he  joins,  is  composed  of  his  wife 
and  children  only  ; and  if  it  admits  of  less  va- 
riety, it  uflbrds  an  opportunity  lor  representing 
scenes  that  more  strongly  interest  the  affec- 
tions. The  younger  children  running  to  meet 
him,  and  clambering  round  his  knee;  the  elder, 
returning  from  their  weekly  labors  with  the 
neighboring  farmers,  dutifully  depositing  their 
little  gains  with  their  parents,  and  receiving 
their  father’s  blessing  and  instructions;  the 
incidents  of  the  couriship  of  Jenny,  their  eld- 
est daughter,  “woman  grown;”  are  circum- 
stances of  the  most  interesting  kind,  which 
are  most  happily  delineated  ; and  after  their 
frugal  supper,  the  representation  of  these  hum- 
ble cottagers  forming  a wider  circle  round  their 
hearth,  and  uniting  in  the  worship  of  God,  is 
a picture  the  m<  st  deeply  affecting  of  any 
which  the  rural  muse  ever  presented  to  the 
view.  Burns  was  admirably  adapted  to  this 
delineation.  Like  all  men  of  genius,  he  was 
of  the  temperament  of  devo  ion.  and  the  pow- 
ers of  memory  co-operated  in  this  instance  with 
the  sensibility  of  his  heart,  and  the  fervor  of 
his  imagination.*  The  Cotter  s Saturday  Night 
is  lender  and  moral,  it  is  solemn  and  devotion- 
al, and  rises  at  length  into  a strain  of  grandeur 
and  sublimity,  which  modern  poetry  has  not 
surpassed.  The  noble  sentiments  of  patriot- 
ism with  which  it  concludes,  correspond  with 
the  rest  of  the  poem.  In  no  age  or  country 
have  the  pastoral  muses  breathed  such  elevated 
accents,  if  the  Messiah  of  Pope  be  excepted, 
which  is  indeed  a pastoral  in  form  only.  It  is 
to  be  regretted  t hat  Burns  did  not  employ  his 
genius  on  other  subjects  of  the  same  nature, 
which  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  Scottish 
peasantry  would  have  amply  supplied.  Such 
poetry  is  not  to  be  estimated  by  i he  degree  of 
pleasure  which  it  bestows;  it  sinks  deeply  into 
the  heart,  and  is  calculated  far  beyond  any  oth- 
er human  means,  for  giving  permanence  to  the 
scenes  and  characters  it  so  exquisitely  de- 
scribes.! 

Before  we  conclude,  it  will  be  proper  to  offer 
a few  observations  on  the  lyric  productions  of 
Burns.  li is  compositions  of  this  kind  are 

chiefly  songs,  generally  in  the  Scottish  dialect, 
and  always  alter  the  model  of  the  Scottish 
songs,  on  the  general  character  and  moral  in- 
fluence of  which,  some  observations  have  al- 
ready been  offered.!  We  may  hazard  a few 
more  particular  remarks. 

Of  the  historic  or  heroic  ballads  of  Scotland, 
it  is  unnecessary  to  speak.  Burns  has  nowhere 
imitated  them,  a circumstance  to  be  regretted, 
since  in  this  species  of  composition,  from  its 
admitting  the  more  terrible  as  well  as  the  soft- 
er graces  of  poetry,  he  was  eminently  qualified 
to  have  excelled.  The  Scottish  songs  which 

* The  reader  will  recollect  that  the  cotter  was  | 
Burns’  father.  See  p.  t.9. 

t See  Appendix,  No.  II.  Note  D.  \ See  page  G.  | 


217 

served  as  tnodcls  for  Burns,  are  almost  without 
exception  pastoral,  or  rather  rural.  Such  of  them 
as  are  comic,  frequently  treat  of  a rustic  court- 
ship or  a country  wedding  : or  they  describe  t he 
differences  of  opinion  which  arise  in  married  life. 
Burns  has  imitated  this  species,  and  surpassed 
nis  models.  The  song  beginning,  *•  Husband, 
husband,  cease  your  strife,’1*  may  be  cited  in 
support  of  this  observation.!  His  oilier  comic 
songs  are  equal  in  merit.  In  the  rural  songs 
of  Scotland,  whether  humorous  or  tender,  the 
sentiments  are  given  to  particular  characters, 
and,  very  generally,  the  incidents  are  referred 
to  particular  scenery.  This  last  circumstance 
may  be  considered  as  the  distingu.shed  feature 
ol  the  Scottish  songs,  and  on  it  a considerable 
parr  of  their  attraction  depends.  On  all  occa- 
sions ihc  sentiments,  of  wha  ever  naiure,  are 
delivered  in  ihe  character  of  the  person  princi- 
pally interested.  If  love  be  described,  it  is  not 
as  it  is  observed,  but  as  it  is  lelt ; and  the  pas- 
sion is  delineated  under  a particular  aspect. 
Neither  is  it  the  fiercer  impulses  of  desire  that 
are  expressed,  as  in  the  celebrated  ode  of  Sap- 
pho, the  model  of  so  many  modern  songs,  but 
those  gentler  emotions  of  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion, which  do  not  entirely  absorb  the  lover; 
biit  permit  him  to  associate  his  emo  ions  with 
the  charms  of  external  nature,  and  breathe  the 
accents  of  purity  and  innocence,  as  well  as  of 
love.  In  these  respects  the  love-songs  of  Scot- 
land are  honorably  distinguished  from  the  most 
admired  classical  compositions  of  the  same 
kind  : and  by  such  associations,  a variety,  as 
we  1 as  liveliness,  is  given  to  the  representation 
of  this  passion,  which  are  not  to  be  found  in 
the  poetry  of  Greece  or  Rome,  or  perhaps  of 
any  other  nation.  Many  of  the  love-songs  of 
Sco  land  describe  scenes  of  rural  courtship; 
many  may  be  considered  as  invocations  from 
lovers  to  their  haistresses.  On  such  occasions 
a degree  of  interest  and  reality  is  given  to  the 
sentiments,  by  the  spot  destined  to  these  hap- 
py interviews  being  particularized.  The  lovers 
perhaps  meet  at  the  Bush  aboon  Troquair,  or 
on  the  Bunks  of  Eltrick  ; the  nymphs  are  in- 
voked to  wander  among  the  wilds  of  Iioslin,  or 
the  woods  of  Invgrmay.  Nor  is  the  spo'  mere- 
ly pointed  out  ; the  scenery  is  often  described 
as  well  as  the  characters,  so  as  to  present  a 
complete  picture  to  the  fancy.!  Thus  the  max- 

* See  Poems,  p.  71. 

f!  lie  dialogues  between  husbands  and  their  wives, 
which  form  Ihe  subjects  of  the  Scoiti.-h  songs,  are 
almost  all  ludicrous  and  satirical,  and  in  the.-e  con- 
tests the  lady  is  generally  victor  mis  From  the 
collections  of  Mr.  l ii; k-  Hon  we  find  ihtyr.  the  comic 
muse  of  h'en  land  delighted  in  such  representations 
from  very  early  times,  in  her  rude  dramatic  efforts, 
as  well  as  in  her  rustic  songs. 

jtOne  or  two  examples  may  il'ustrate  this  observ- 
ation. A Scottish  song,  written  about  a hundred 
years  ago,  beg  ns  thus  : 

“ On  Ettrick  banks,  on  a summer’s  night. 

At  gloaming,  when  the  sheep  drove  hame, 

I met  inv  lassie,  braw  and  light, 

Come  wading  barefoot  a’  her  lane  ; 

My  heart  grew  light,  1 ran,  1 flung 
My  arms  about  her  litv  neck. 

And  kiss’d  and  clasped  there  f»i’  tang. 

My  words  they  were  na  ninny  feck.”* 

The  lover,  who  is  a Highlander,  goes  on  to  re- 
late die  language  he  eipptojeri  with  bis  l.owlund 

* Movy  feck,  not  very  many. 


218 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


im  of  Horace  ul  piclura  poesis,  is  faithfully  ob- 
served by  these  rustic  bards,  who  are  guided 
by  the  same  impulse  of  nature  and  sensibility 
which  influenced  the  father  of  epic  poetry  on 
whose  example  the  precept  ot  the  Roman  poet 
was,  perhaps,  founded.  By  this  means  the  im- 
agination is  employed  to  interest  the  feelings. 
When  we  do  not  conceive  distinctly  we  do  not 
sympathize  deeply  in  any  human  affection; 
and  we  conceive  nothing  in  the  abstract.  Ab- 
straction, so  useful  in  morals,  and  so  essential 
in  science,  must  he  abandoned  when  the  heart 
is  to  be  subdued  by  the  powers  of  poetry  and 
eloquence.  The  bards  of  a ruder  condition  of 
society  paint  individual  objects ; and  hence, 
among  other  causes,  the  easy  access  they  ob- 
tain to  the  heart.  Generalization  is  the  vice 
of  poets  w'hose  learning  overpowers  their  ge- 
nius ; of  poets  of  a refined  and  scientific  age. 

The  dramatic  style  which  prevails  so  much  in 
the  Scottish  songs,  while  it  contributes  greatly 
to  the  interest  they  excite,  also  shows  that  they 
have  originated  among  a people  in  the  earlier 
stages  of  society.  Where  this  form  of  compo- 
sition appears  in  songs  of  a modern  date,  it  indi- 
cates that  they  were  written  after  the  ancient 
model.* 

The  Scottish  songs  are  of  a very  unequal  po- 

waid  to  win  her  heart,  and  lo  persuade  her  to  fly 
with  him  to  the  Highland  Hills,  there  to  share  his 
fortune.  The  sentiments  are  in  themselves  beauti- 
ful. But  vve  feel  them  with  double  force,  while  we 
conceive  that  they  were  addressed  by  a lover  to  his 
mistress,  whom  lie  met  ail  alone,  on  a summer’s 
evening,  by  the  banks  of  a beautiful  stream,  which 
some  of  us  have  actually  seen,  and  which  all  of  us 
can  p-iinttoour  imagination.  Bet  us  take  another 
example.  It  is  now  a nymph  that  speaks.  Hear  how 
she  expresses  herself: 

“ How  lilythe  each  morn  was  I to  see 
My  swain  come  o’er  the  h II ! 

He  skipt  the  burn,  and  flew  to  me, 

1 met  him  with  guid  will.” 

Here  is  another  pic  lire  drawn  by  the  pencil  ofNa- 
ture.  We  s e a shepherdess  standing  hy  the  side  of 
a brook,  watching  tier  lover  as  he  descends  the  op- 
posite hi  I.  He  bounds  lightly  along ; he  approaches 
nearer  and  nearer  ; he  leaps  the  brook,  and  flies  into 
herarms.  In  the  recollection  of  these  circumstances 
the  surrounding  scenery  becomes  endeared  to  t lie 
fair  mourner,  and  She  Luisls  into  the  following  ex- 
clamation : 

“ O the  broom,  the  bonnie,  bonnie  broom, 

The  broom  of  the  Cowden-Knowes ! 

I wish  1 were  with  my  dear  swain, 

With  his  pipe  and  my  ewes.” 

Thus  the  individual  spot  of  this  happy  interview  is 
pointed  out,  and  the  picture  is  completed. 

*That  the  drarnat  c form  of  wr  ting  characterizes 
the  product  ons  ol  an  early,  or,  what  amounts  to  the 
same  thing,  of  a rude  stage  of  society,  may  be  illus- 
trated by  a refs  rence  to  the  most  ancient  composi- 
tions that  we  know  of,  the  Hebrew  scriptures,  and 
the  writings  of  Homer.  The  form  o*  dialogue  is  adopt- 
ed in  the  old  Scott  ishballads  even  in  narration,  when- 
ever the  situations  describ'd  become  interesting. 
This  sometimes  produces  a very  striking  eff  ct.  of 
which  an  instance  may  be  given  from  the  ballad  of 
Edom  o'  Gordon,  a composition  apparently  of  the  six- 
teenth century.  The  story  of  the  ballad  is  short'y 
this. — The  castle  of  Rhodes,  in  tin-  absence  of  its  lo-d, 
is  attacked  by  the  robber  Edom  o’  Onn'mi.  The  lady 
stands  on  h r defence,  I eats  off  the  assailants,  and 
wounds  Gordon,  who.  in  his  rage,  orders  the  castle 
to  be  set  on  fir  ■.  That  his  orders  are  carr  ed  into  ef- 
fect, we  learn  from  the  expostulation  of  tie  lady,  who 
is  represented  as  standing  on  the  battlements,  and 
remonstrating  on  this  barbarity.  She  is  interrupted — 


etical  merit,  and  this  inequality  extends  to  the 
different  parts  of  the  same  song.  Those  thatare 
humorous,  or  characteristic  ot  manners,  have  in 
general  the  merit  of  copying  nature;  those  that 
are  serious,  are  tender,  and  often  sweetly  inter- 
esting, but  seldom  exhibit  high  powers  of  imag- 
ination, which  indeed  do  not  easily  find  a place 
in  this  species  of  composition.  The  alliance  of 
the  worus  of  the  Scottish  songs  with  the  music, 
has  in  some  instances  given  to  the  former  a pop- 
ularity, which  otherwise  they  would  not  have 
obtained. 

The  association  of  the  words  and  the  music 
of  these  songs,  with  the  more  beautiful  parts  of 
the  scenery  of  Scotland,  contributes  to  the  same 
effect.  It  has  given  them  not  merely  populari- 
ty, but  permanence;  it  has  imparted  to  the 
works  of  man  some  portion  of  the  durability  of 
the  works  of  nature.  If,  from  our  imperfect,  expe- 
rience of  the  past,  we  may  judge  with  any  con- 
fidence respecting  the  future,  songs  of  this  de- 
scription are  of  all  others  least  likely  to  die.  In 
the  changes  of  language  they  may  no  doubt  suf- 
fer change;  but  t fie  associated  strain  of  senti- 
ment and  of  music  will  perhaps  survive,  while 
the  clear  stream  sweeps  down  the  vale  of  Yar- 
row, or  the  yellow  broom  waves  on  Cowden- 
Knowes. 

The  first  attempts  of  Burns  in  song-writing 
were  not  very  successful.  II i s habhual  inatten- 
tion to  the  exactness  of  rhymes  and  the  harmo- 
ny of  numbers,  arising  probably  from  the  mod- 
els on  which  his  versification  was  formed,  were 
faults  likely  to  appear  to  more  disadvantage  in 
this  species  of  composition,  than  in  any  other; 
and  we  may  also  remark,  that  the  strength  of 
his  imagination,  and  ihe  exuberance  of  his  sen- 
sibility, were  with  difficulty  restrained  within 
the  limits  of  gentleness,  delicacy,  and  tender- 
ness, which  seemed  to  be  assigned  to  the  love- 
songs  of  his  nation.  Burns  was  better  adapted 
by  nature  for  fol lowing,  in  such  compositions, 
the  model  of  the  Grecian,  than  that  ot  the  Scot- 
tish muse.  By  study  and  practice  he  however 
surmounted  all  these  obstacles.  In  his  earlier 
songs,  there  is  some  ruggedness  ; but  this  grad- 
ually disappears  in  his  successive  efibrts  ; and 
some  of  iiis  later  compositions  of  this  kind  may 
be  compared,  in  polished  delicacy,  with  the  fin- 
es: songs  in  our  language,  while  in  the  eloquence 
of  sensibility  they  surpass  them  all. 

The  songs  of  Burns,  like  the  models  he  fol- 
lowed and  excelled,  are  often  dramatic,  and  for 
the  greater  part  amatory  ; and  the  beauties  of 
rural  nature  are  every  where  associated  with  the 
passions  and  emotions  of  the  mind.  Disdaining 
to  copy  the  works  of  others,  he  has  not,  like 
some  poets  of  great  name,  admitted  into  his  de- 

“ O then  hespake  her  little  son, 

Sate  on  his  nourice  knee; 

Says,  • mil  her  dear,  gi’  owre  this  house, 

For  the  reek  it  smitliers  trie.’ 

* I wad  gie  a’  iny  gowd,  my  childe, 

Sae  wad  I a’  my  fee. 

For  ae  blast  o’ the  wesilin  wind, 

To  blavv  the  reek  frae  thee.” 

The  circumstantiality  of  the  Scottish  love-songs,  and 
the  dramatic  form  which  prevails  so  genera  ly  in 
them,  probably  ar  ses  from  ilieir  being  the  descend- 
ants and  successors  of  the  ancient  ballads.  In  the 
beautiful  modern  song  of  Mary  of  Custie-Cary,  the 
dramatic  form  has  a very  happy  effect.  The  same 
may  lie  said  of  Donald  and  Flora , and  Come  under 
my  pluidie,  by  the  same  author,  Mr.  Macniel. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


219 


scriptions  exotic  imagery.  The  landscapes  he 
has  painted,  and  the  objects  with  which  they 
are  embellished,  are,  in  every  single  instance, 
such  as  are  to  be  found  in  his  own  country.  In 
a mountainous  region,  especially  when  it  is  com- 
paratively rude  and  naked,  the  most  beauti- 
ful scenery  will  always  be  ibund  in  the  valleys, 
and  on  the  banks  of  the  wooded  streams.  Such 
scenery  is  peculiarly  interesting  at  the  close  of 
a summer-day.  As  we  advance  northwards,  the 
number  of  the  days  of  summer,  indeed,  dimin- 
ishes; but  from  this  cause,  as  well  as  from  the 
mildness  of  the  temperature,  the  attraction  of 
the  season  increases,  and  the  summer-night  be- 
comes still  more  beautiful.  The  greater  obli- 
quity of  the  sun’s  path  on  the  ecliptic  prolongs 
the  gratetul  season  of  twilight  to  the  midnight 
hours:  and  the  shades  of  the  evening  seem  to 
mingle  with  the  morning’s  dawn.  The  rural  po- 
ets of  Scotland,  as  may  be  expected,  associate 
in  their  songs  the  expressions  of  passion,  with 
the  most  beautiful  of  their  scenery,  in  the  fairest 
season  of  the  year,  and  generally  in  those  hours 
of  the  evening  when  the  beauties  of  nature  are 
most  interesting.* 

To  all  these  adventitious  circumstances,  on 
which  so  much  of  the  effect  of  poe:ry  depends, 
great  attention  is  paid  by  Burns.  There  is  scarce- 
ly a single  song  of  his,  in  which  particular  scene- 
ry is  not  described,  or  allusions  made  to  natural 
objects,  remarkable  for  beauty  or  interest : and 
though  his  descriptions  are  not  so  full  as  are 
sometimes  met  with  in  the  older  Scottish  songs, 
they  are  in  the  highest  degree  appropriate  and 
interesting.  Instances  in  proof  of  this  might  be 
quoted  from  the  Lea.  Rig , Highland  Mary , The 
Soldier's  Return,  Logan  Water  ; from  that 
beautiful  pastoral  Bonnie  Jean . and  a great  num- 
ber of  others.  Occasionally  the  force  of  his  ge- 
nius carries  him  beyond  the  usual  bounderies  of 
Scottish  song,  and  the  natural  objects  introdu- 
ced have  more  of  the  character  of  sublimity. 
An  instance  of  this  kind  is  noticed  by  Mr. 
Syme.t  and  many  others  might  be  adduced  : 

“ Had  I a cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore. 

Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves’ dashing  roar: 
There  would  1 weep  my  woes, 

* A lady,  of  whose  genius  the  editor  entertains  high 
adm  ration  (Mrs.  Barbauid  ) has  fallen  into  an  error 
in  this  respect.  In  her  prefatory  address  to  the  works 
of  Collins,  speaking  of  the  natural  objects  that  may 
be  employed  to  give  interest  to  the  descriptions  of 
passion,  she  observes,  “th  y present  an  inexhausti- 
ble variety,  from  the  Song  of  Solomon,  breath  ng  of 
cassia,  myrrh,  and  cinnamon,  to  the  Gentle  Shepherd 
of  Ramsay,  whose  damsels  carry  their  milking  pails 
through  the  frosts  and  snows  of  their  less  genial,  but 
not  less  pastoral  country.”  The  damsels  of  Ramsay 
do  not  walk  in  the  mid-t  of  frost  and  snow.  Almost  I 
all  the  scenes  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd  are  laid  in  open 
air,  amidst  beautiful  natural  objec  s.  and  at  the  most 
genial  season  ofthe  year.  Ramsay  introduces  all  his 
actswi.h  a prefatory  description  to  assure  us  of  this 
The  fault  ofthe  climate  of  iirituin  is  not.  that  it  docs 
not  afford  us  the  beauties  of  summer,  but  that  the 
season  of  such  beauties  is  comparatively  short,  and 
even  uncertain.  There  are  days  and  nights,  even  in 
the  northern  division  of  the  island,  which  equal,  or 
perhaps  surpass,  what  are  to  he  found  in  the  latitude 
of  Sicily,  nr  of  Greece.  Buchanan,  when  he  wrote 
his  exquisite  Ode  to  May,  felt  the  charm  as  well  as 
the  trausieutnesa  of  these  happy  days. 

Salve  fugacis  gloria  seculi, 

Salve  secunda  digua  dies  nota, 

Salve  veiustse  vitae  imago,  ♦ 

Et  specimen  ven:eutis  fEvi. 
t Sec  pp.  196, 197. 


There  seek  my  last  repose. 

Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close 
Ne’er  to  wake  more.” 

In  one  song,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  a 
winter-night,  the  “ wan  ntoon”  is  described  as 
“ setting  behind  the  while  waves  in  another, 
the  “ storms  ” are  apostrophized,  and  command- 
ed to  "rest  in  the  cave  of  their  slumbers;”  on 
several  occasions  the  genius  of  Burns  loses  sight 
entirely  of  his  archetypes,  and  rises  into  a 
strain  of  uniform  sublimity.  Instances  of  this 
kind  appear  in  Libertie,  a Vision  ; and  in  his 
two  war-songs,  Bruce  to  his  Troops,  and  in  the 
Song  of  Death.  These  last  are  ol  a description 
of  which  we  have  no  other  in  our  language, 
i The  martial  songs  of  our  nation  are  not  milita- 
ry, but  naval.  It  we  u'ere  to  seek  a compari- 
son ot  these  songs  of  Burns  with  others  of  a 
similar  nature,  we  must  have  recourse  to  the 
poetry  of  ancient  Greece,  or  of  modern  Gaul. 

Burns  has  made  an  important  addition  to  the 
songs  of  Scotland.  In  his  compositions,  the 
poetry  equals,  and  sometimes  surpasses  the  mu- 
sic. He  has  enlarged  the  poetical  scenery  of  his 
country.  Many  ot  her  rivers  and  mountains, 
formerly  unknown  to  the  muse,  are  now  conse- 
crated by  iiis  immortal  verse.  The  Doon,  the 
Litgar,  the  Ayr,  the  JST i t h ' and  the  Ciuden,  will, 
in  tuture,  like  the  Yarrow,  the  Tweed,  and  the 
l ay,  be  considered  as  classic  streams,  and  their 
borders  will  be  trodden  w’ith  new  and  superior 
emotions. 

The  greater  part  of  the  songs  of  Burns  were 
written  after  he  removed  into  the  county  of 
Dumfries.  Influenced,  perhaps,  by  habits 
formed  in  early  life,  he  usually  composed  while 
walking  in  the  open  air.  VV  hen  engaged  in 
writing  these  songs,  his  favorite  walks  were 
on  the  banks  of  me  Nith,  or  of  the  Ciuden, 
particularly  near  the  ruins  of  Lincluden  Ab- 
bey ; and  this  beautiful  scenery  he  has  very 
happily  described  under  various  aspects,  as  it 
appears  during  the  softness  and  serenity  of 
evening,  and  during  the  stillness  and  solemnity 
of  a moonlight-night.* 

There  is  no  species  of  poetry,  the  produc- 
tions of  the  drama  not  excepted,  so  much  cal- 
culated to  influence  the  morals,  as  well  as  the 
happiness  of  a people,  as  those  popular  verses 
which  are  associated  with  national  airs  ; and 
which  being  learned  in  the  years  of  infancy, 
make  a deep  impression  on  the  heart  before  the 
evolution  of  tbe  powers  of  the  understanding. 
The  compositions  of  Burns  of  this  kind,  now 
presented  in  a collected  form  to  the  world, 
make  a most  important  addition  to  the  popular 
songs  of  his  nation.  Like  all  his  other  writ- 
ings, they  exhibit  independence  of  sentiment ; 
they  are  peculiarly  calculated  to  increase  those 
ties  which  bind  generous  hearts  to  their  native 
soil,  and  to  the  domestic  circle  of  their  infan- 
cy ; and  to  cherish  those  sensibilities  which, 
under  due  restriction,  form  the  purest  happi- 
ness of  our  nature.  If  in  his  unguarded  mo- 
ments he  composed  some  songs  on  which  this 
praise  cannot  be  bestowed,  let  us  hope  that  they 
will  speedily  be  forgotten.  In  several  in- 
stances, where  Scottish  airs  were  allied  to 
words  objectionable  in  point  of  delicacy,  Burns 
has  substituted  others  of  a purer  character.  On 
such  occasions,  without  changing  the  subject, 
he  has  changed  the  sentiments.  A proof  of 
* See  Poems,  p.  72;  and  the  Vision,  p.  17. 


220 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


this  may  be  seen  in  the  air  of  John  Anderson 
my  Joe , which  is  now  united  to  words  that 
breathe  a strain  of  conjugal  tenderness,  that  is 
as  highly  moral  as  it  is  exquisitely  affecting. 

Few  circumstances  could  afford  a more  strik- 
ing proof  of  the  strength  of  Burns’  genius, 
than  the  general  circulation  of  his  poems  in 
England,  notwithstanding  the  dialect  in  which 
the  greater  part  are  written,  and  which  might 
be  supposed  to  render  them  here  uncouth  or 
obscure.  In  some  instances  he  has  used  this 
dialect  on  subjects  of  a sublime  nature  ; but  in 
general  he  confines  it  to  sentiments  or  descrip- 
tions of  a tender  or  humorous  kind  ; and  where 
he  rises  into  elevation  of  thought,  he  assumes 
a purer  English  style.  The  singular  faculty  he 
possessed  of  mingling  in  the  same  poem,  hu- 
morous sentiments  and  descriptions,  with  im- 
agery of  a sublime  and  terrific  nature,  enabled 
him  to  use  this  variety  of  dialect  on  some  occa- 
sions with  striking  effect.  His  poem  of  Tam 
o'  Shanter  affords  an  instance  of  this.  There 
he  passes  from  a scene  of  the  lowest  humor,  to 
situations  of  the  most  awful  and  terrible  kind. 
He  is  a musician  that  runs  from  the  lowest  to 
the  highest  of  his  keys  ; and  the  use  of  the 
Scottish  dialect  enables  him  to  add  two  addi- 
tional notes  to  the  bottom  of  his  scale. 

Great  efforts  have  been  made  by  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Scotland,  of  the  superior  ranks,  to  ap- 
proximate in  their  speech  to  the  pure  English 
standard;  and  this  has  made  it  difficult  to  write 
in  the  Scottish  dialect,  without  exciting  in  them 
some  feelings  of  disgust,  which  in  England  are 
scarcely  felt.  An  Englishman  who  under- 
stands the  meaning  of  the  Scottish  words,  is 
not  offended,  nay,  on  certain  subjects,  he  is 
perhaps  pleased  with  the  rustic  dialect,  as  he 
may  be  with  the  Doric  Greek  of  Theocritus. 

But  a Scotchman  inhabiting  his  own  country, 
if  a man  of  education,  and  more  especially  if  a 
literary  character,  has  banished  such  words  from 
his  writings,  and  has  attempted  to  banish  them 
from  his  speech  ; and  being  accustomed  to  hear 
them  from  the  vulgar,  daily,  does  not  easily 
admit  of  their  use  in  poetry,  which  requires  a 
style  elevated  and  ornamental,  A dislike  of 
this  kind  is,  however,  accidental,  not  natural. 
It  is  one  of  the  species  of  disgust  which  we 
feel  at  seeing  a female  of  high  birth,  in  the 
dress  of  a rustic  ; which,  if  she  be  really  young 
and  beautiful,  a little  habit  will  enable  us  to 
overcome.  A lady  who  assumes  such  a dress, 
puts  her  beauty,  indeed,  to  a severer  trial.  She 
rejects — she,  indeed,  opposes  the  influence  of 
fashion  ; she  possibly  abandons  the  grace  of 
elegant  and  flowing  drapery  ; but  her  native 
charms  remain  the  more  striking,  perhaps, 
because  less  adorned  ; and  to  these  she  trusts 
for  fixing  her  empire  on  those  affections  over 
which  fashion  has  no  sway.  The  dress  of  the 
beautiful  rustic  becomes  itself  beautiful,  and 
establishes  a new  fashion  for  the  young  and 
gay.  And  when  in  after  ages,  the  contempla- 
tive observer  shall  view  her  picture  in  the  gal- 
lery that  contains  the  portraits  of  the  beauties 
of  successive  centuries,  each  in  the  dress  of 
her  respective  day,  her  drapery  will  not  devi- 
ate, more  than  that  of  her  rivals,  from  the 
standard  of  his  taste,  and  he  will  give  the 
palm  to  her  who  excels  in  the  lineaments  of  na- 
ture. 

Burns  wrote  professedly  for  the  peasantry  of 


his  country,  and  by  them  their  native  dialect  is 
universally  relished.  To  a numerous  class  of 
the  natives  of  Scotland  of  another  description, 
it  may  also  be  considered  as  attractive  in  a dif- 
ferent point  of  view.  Estranged  from  their 
native  soil,  and  spread  over  foreign  lands,  the 
idiom  of  their  country  unites  with  the  senti- 
ments and  the  descriptions  on  which  it  is  em- 
ployed, to  recall  to  their  minds  the  interesting 
scenes  of  infancy  and  youth — to  awaken  many 
pleasing,  many  tender  recollections.  Literary 
men,  residing  at  Edinburgh  or  Aberdeen,  can- 
not judge  on  this  point  for  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  of  their  expatriated  country- 
men.* 

To  the  use  of  the  Scottish  dialect  in  one  spe- 
cies of  poetry,  the  composition  of  songs,  the 
taste  of  the  public  has  been  for  some  time  re- 
conciled. The  dialect  in  question  excels,  as 
has  already  been  observed,  in  the  copiousness 
and  exactness  of  its  terms  for  natural  objects  ; 
and  in  pastoral  or  rural  songs,  it  gives  a Do- 
ric simplicity,  which  is  very  generally  approv- 
ed. Neither  does  the  regret  seem  well  founded 
which  some  persons  of  taste  have  expressed, 
that  Burns  used  this  dialect  in  so  many  other 
of  his  compositions.  His  declared  purpose  was 
to  paint  the  manners  of  rustic  life  among  his 
“ humble  compeers,”  and  it  is  not  easy  to  con- 
ceive, that  this  could  have  been  done  with  equal 
humor  and  effect,  if  he  had  not  adopted  their 
idiom.  There  are  some,  indeed,  who  will 
think  the  subject  too  low  for  poetry.  Persons 
of  this  sickly  taste  will  find  their  delicacies 
consulted  in  many  a polite  and  learned  author  : 
let  them  not  seek  for  gratification  in  the  rough 
and  vigorous  lines,  in  the  unbridled  humor,  or 
in  the  overpowering  sensibility  of  this  bard  of 
nature. 

To  determine  the  comparative  merit  of  Burns 
would  be  no  easy  task.  Many  persons,  after- 
wards distinguished  in  literature,  have  been 
born  in  as  humble  a situation  in  life;  but  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  any  other  who,  while 
earning  his  subsistence  by  daily  labor,  has 
written  verses  which  have  attracted  and  retain- 
ed universal  attention,  and  which  are  likely  to 
give  the  author  a permanent  and  distinguished 
place  among  the  followers  of  the  muses.  If  he 
is  deficient  in  grace,  he  is  distinguished  for  ease 
as  well  as  energy  ; and  these  are  indications  of 
the  higher  order  of  genius.  The  father  of  epic 
poetry  exhibits  one  of  his  heroes  as  excelling 
in  strength,  another  in  swiftness — to  form  his 
perfect  warrior,  these  attributes  are  combined. 
Every  species  of  intellectual  superiority  admits 
perhaps  of  a similar  arrangement.  One  writer 
excels  in  force — another  in  ease  ; he  is  superior 
to  them  both,  in  whom  both  these  qualities  are 
united.  Of  Homer  himself  it  may  be  said, 
* These  observations  are  excited  by  some  remarks 
of  respectable  correspondents  of  the  descript. on  al- 
luded to.  This  calculation  of  the  number  of  Scotch- 
men living  out  of  Scotland  is  not  altogether  arbitra- 
ry, and  it  is  probably  below  the  truth.  It  is,  in 
some  degree,  founded  on  the  proportion  between 
the  number  of  the  sexes  in  Scotland,  as  it  appears 
front  the  invaluable  Statistics  of  Sir  John  Sinclair. 
For  Scotchmen  of  this  description,  more  particular- 
ly, Burns  seems  to  have  written  his  song  beginning, 
Their  groves  o'  sireet  myrtle, a beauiiful  strain,  which, 
it  may  he  confidently  predicted,  w 11  be  sung  with 
equal  or  super  or  inierest  on  the  banks  of  the  Gan- 
ges or  of  the  Mississippi,  as  on  those  of  the  Tay  or 
the  Tweed. 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


221 


that,  like  his  own  Achilles,  he  surpasses  his 
competitors  in  nobility  as  well  as  strength. 

The  force  of  Burns  lay  in  the  powers  of  his  un- 
derstanding. and  in  the  sensibility  of  his  heart  ; 
and  these  will  be  found  to  infuse  the  living  prin- 
ciple into  all  the  works  of  genius  which  seem 
destined  to  immortality.  His  sensibility  had  an 
uncommon  range.  He  was  alive  to  every  spe- 
cies of  emotion.  He  is  one  of  the  few  poets 
that  can  be  mentioned,  who  have  at  once  excell- 
ed in  humor,  in  tenderness,  and  in  sublimity;  a 
praise  unknown  to  the  ancients,  and  which  in 
modern  times  is  only  due  to  Ariosto,  to  Shak- 
speare,  and  perhaps  to  Voltaire.  To  compare 


the  writings  of  the  Scottish  peasant  with  the 
works  of  these  giants  in  literature,  might  appear 
presumptuous;  yet  it  may  be  asserted  that  he 
has  displayed  the  foot  of  Hercules.  How  near 
he  might  have  approached  them  by  proper  cul- 
ture, with  lengthened  years,  and  under  happier 
auspices,  it  is  not  for  us  to  calculate.  But  while 
we  run  over  this  melancholy  story  of  his  life,  it 
is  impossible  not  to  heave  a sigh  at  the  asperity 
of  his  fortune  ; and  as  we  survey  the  records  of 
his  mind,  it  is  easy  to  see,  that  out  of  such  ma- 
terials have  been  reared  the  fairest  and  the  most 
durable  of  the  monuments  of  genius. 


ADVERTISEMENT 


TO 

DR.  CURRIE’S 

EDITION  OF  THE  CORRESPONDENCE. 


It  is  impossible  to  dismiss  this  volume*  of  the 
Correspondence  of our  Bard,  wiihout  some  anx- 
iety as  to  the  reception  it  may  meet  with.  The 
experiment  we  are  making  has  not  often  been 
tried  ; perhaps  on  no  occasion  has  so  large  a por- 
tion of  the  recent  and  unpremeditated  effusions 
of  a man  of  genius  been  committed  to  the  press. 

Of  the  following  letters  of  Burns,  a consider- 
able number  were  transmitted  for  publication, 
by  the  individuals  to  whom  they  were  address- 
ed : but  very  few  have  been  printed  entire.  It 
will  easily  be  believed,  that  in  a series  of  letters 
written  without  the  least  view  to  publication,  va- 
rious passages  were  found  unfit  lor  the  press, 
from  different  considerations.  It  will  also  be 
readily  supposed,  that  our  poet,  writing  nearly 
at  the  same  time,  and  under  the  same  feelings, 
to  different  individuals,  would  sometimes  fall 
into  the  same  train  of  sentiment  and  forms  of 
expression.  To  avoid,  therefore  the  tedious- 
ness of  such  repetitions,  it  has  been  found  neces- 
sary to  mutilate  many  of  the  individual  letters, 
and  sometimes  to  exscind  parts  of  great  delica- 
cy— the  unbridled  effusions  of  panegyric  and  re- 
gard. But  though  many  of  the  letters  are  print- 
ed from  originals  furnished  by  the  persons  to 
whom  they  were  addressed,  others  are  printed 
from  first  draughts,  or  sketches,  found  among 
the  papers  of  our  Bard.  Though  in  general  no 
man  committed  his  thoughts  to  his  correspond- 
ents with  less  consideration  or  effort  than  Burns, 
yet  it  appears  that  in  some  instances  he  was 
dissatisfied  with  his  first  essays,  and  wrote  out 
his  communications  in  a fairer  character,  or 
perhaps  in  more  studied  language.  In  the  chaos 
of  his  manuscripts,  some  of  the  original  sketch- 
es were  found  ; and  as  these  sketches,  though 
less  perfect,  are  fairly  to  be  considered  as  the 
offspring  of  his  mind,  where  they  have  seemed 

* Dr.  Currie’s  edition  of  Burns’  Works  was  origi- 
nally published  in  four  volumes,  of  which  the  follow- 
ing Correspondence  formed  the  second. 


in  themselves  worthy  of  a place  in  this  volume, 
we  have  not  hesitated  to  insert  them,  though 
they  may  not  always  correspond  exactly  with 
the  letters  transmitted,  which  have  been  lost  or 
withheld. 

Our  author  appears  at  one  time  to  have  form- 
ed an  intention  of  making  a collection  of  his 
letters  for  the  amusement  of  a friend.  Accord- 
ingly he  copied  an  inconsiderable  number  of 
them  into  a book,  which  he  presented  to  Rob- 
ert Riddel,  of  Glenriddel,  Esq.  Among  these 
was  the  account  of  his  life,  addressed  to  Dr. 
Moore,  and  printed  in  the  first  volume.  In 
copying  from  his  imperfect  sketches,  (it  does 
not  appear  that  he  had  the  letters  actually  sent 
to  his  correspondents  before  him,)  he  seems  to 
have  occasionally  enlarged  his  observations,  and 
altered  his  expressions.  In  such  instances  his 
emendations  have  been  adopted;  but  in  truth 
there  are  but  five  of  the  letters  thus  selected  by 
the  poet,  to  be  found  in  the  present  volume,  the 
rest  being  thought  of  inferior  merit,  or  other- 
wise unfit  for  the  public  eye. 

In  printing  this  volume,  the  editor  has  found 
some  corrections  of  grammar  necessary;  but 
these  have  been  very  few,  and  such  as  may  be 
supposed  to  occur  in  the  careless  effusions  even 
of  literary  characters,  who  have  not  been  in  the 
habit  of  carrying  their  compositions  to  the 
press.  These  corrections  have  never  been  ex- 
tended to  any  habitual  modes  of  expression  of 
the  poet,  even  where  his  phraseology  may  seem 
to  violate  the  delicacies  of  taste  ; or  the  idiom  of 
our  language,  which  he  wrote  in  general  with 
great  accuracy.  Some  difference  will  indeed  be 
found  in  this  respect  in  his  earlier  and  in  his 
later  compositions;  and  this  volume  will  exhibit 
the  progress  of  his  style,  as  well  as  the  history 
of  his  mind.  In  the  fourth  edition,  several  new 
letters  were  introduced,  and  some  of  inferior 
importance  were  omitted. 


222 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE 


OF 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


LETTERS,  &c. 


No.  I. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  MURDOCH, 
SCHOOLMASTER, 

STAPLES  INN  BUILDINGS,  LONDON. 

Lochlee,  15t h January , 1783. 

Dear  Sir, 

As  I have  an  opportunity  of  sending  you  a 
letter,  w ithout  putting  you  to  that  expense  which 
any  production  of  mine  would  but  ill  repay,  I 
embrace  it  with  pleasure,  to  tell  you  that  I have 
not  forgotten,  nor  never  will  forget,  the  many 
obligations  I lie  under  to  your  kindness  and 
friendship. 

I do  not  doubt,  sir,  but  you  will  wish  to 
know  what  has  been  the  result  of  all  the  pains 
of  an  indulgent  father,  and  a masterly  teacher  ; 
and  I wish  I could  gratify  your  curiosity  with 
such  a recital  as  you  would  be  pleased  with ; 
but  that  is  what  I am  afraid  will  not  be  the  case. 
I have,  indeed,  kept  pretty  clear  of  vicious  ha- 
bits; and  in  this  respect,  I hope  my  conduct 
will  not  disgrace  the  education  I have  gotten ; 
but  as  a man  of  the  world,  I am  most  misera- 
bly deficient.  One  would  have  thought  that 
bred  as  I have  been,  under  a father  who  has 
figured  pretty  well  as  un  homme  des  affaires,  I 
might  have  been  what  the  world  calls  a push- 
ing. active  fellow;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
sic  there  is  hardly  anything  more  my  reverse. 
I seem  to  be  one  sent  into  the  world  to  see,  and 
observe;  and  I very  easily  compound  with  the 
knave  who  tricks  me  of  my  money,  if  there  be 
anything  original  about  him  which  shows  me 
human  nature  in  a different  light  from  anything 
I have  seen  before.  In  short,  the  joy  of  my 
heart  is  to  study  “men,  their  manners,  and  their 
ways;”  and  for  this  darling  object,  I cheerfully 
sacrifice  every  other  consideration.  I am  quite 
indolent  about  those  great  concerns  that  set  the 
bustling  busy  sons  of  care  agog ; and  if  I have 
to  answer  for  the  present  hour,  I am  very  easy 
with  regard  to  anything  further.  Even  the  last 
worthy  shift  of  the  unfortunate  and  the  wretch- 
ed, does  not  much  terrify  me  : I know  that  even 
then  my  talent  for  what  country-folks  call  “ a 
sensible  crack,11  when  once  it  is  sanctified  by  a 
hoary  head,  would  procure  me  so  much  esteem, 
that  even  then — I would  learn  to  be  happy.* 

* The  last  shift  alluded  to  here,  must  be  the  con- 
dition of  an  itinerant  beggar. 

223 


However,  I am  under  no  apprehensions  about 
that ; for,  though  indolent,  yet,  so  far  as  an  ex- 
tremely delicate  constitution  permits,  I am  not 
lazy  ; and  in  many  things,  especially  in  tavern- 
matters,  a strict  economist ; not  indeed  for  the 
sake  of  money,  but  one  of  the  principal  parts 
in  my  composition  is  a kind  of  pride  of  stom- 
ach, and  I scorn  to  fear  the  face  of  any  man 
living;  above  everything,  I abhor,  as  hell,  the 
idea  of  sneaking  into  a corner  to  avoid  a dun — 
possibly  some  pitiful,  sordid  wretch,  whom  in 
my  heart  I despise  and  detest.  ’T  is  this,  and 
this  alone,  that  endears  economy  to  me.  In 
the  matter  of  books,  indeed,  I am  very  profuse. 
My  favorite  authors  are  of  the  sentimental  kind, 
such  as  Shenstone,  particularly  his  Elegies  ; 
Thomson  ; Man  of  Feeling,  a book  I prize  next 
to  the  Bible  ; Man  of  the  World  ; Sterne,  es- 
pecially his  Sentimental  Journey ; Mc'Fher- 
soti's  Ossian,  &c.  These  are  the  glorious  mo- 
dels after  which  I endeavor  to  form  my  con- 
duct ; and  ’t  is  incongruous,  't  is  absurd,  to 
suppose  that  a man  whose  mind  glows  with  the 
sentiments  lighted  up  at  their  sacred  flame — 
the  man  whose  heart  distends  with  benevolence 
to  all  the  human  race — he  “ who  can  soar 
above  this  little  scene  of  things,”  can  he  de- 
scend to  mind  the  paltry  concerns  about  which 
the  terraefilial  race  fret,  and  fume,  and  vex 
themselves  ? O how  the  glorious  triumph 
swells  my  heart ! I forget  that  I am  a poor 
insignificant  devil,  unnoticed  and  unknown, 
stalking  up  and  down  fairs  and  markets,  when 
I happen  to  be  in  them,  reading  a page  or  two 
of  mankind,  and  “ catching  the  manners  living 
as  they  rise,11  whilst  the  men  of  business  jostle 
me  on  every  side  as  an  idle  incumbrance  in 
their  way.  But  I dare  say  I have  by  this  time 
tired  your  patience;  so  I shall  conclude  with 
begging  you  to  give  Mrs.  Murdoch — not  my 
compliments,  for  that  is  a mere  common-place 
story,  but  my  warmest,  kindest  wishes  for  her 
welfare  ; and  accept  of  the  same  for  yourself 
from,  Dear  Sir,  Yours,  &c. 


No  II. 

The  following  is  taken  from  the  MS.  Prose  present- 
ed by  our  Bard  to  Mr.  Riddel. 

On  rummaging  over  some  old  papers,  I 
lighted  on  a MS.  of  my  early  years,  in  which 


224 


LETTERS. 


I had  determined  to  write  myself  out,  as  I was 
placed  by  fortune  among  a class  of  men  to 
whom  my  ideas  w'ould  have  been  nonsense.  I 
had  meant  that  the  book  should  have  lain  by 
me,  in  the  fond  hope  that,  some  time  or  other, 
even  after  I was  no  more,  my  thoughts  would 
fall  into  the  hands  of  somebody  capable  of  ap- 
preciating their  value.  It  sets  off  thus  : 

Observations,  Hints,  Songs,  Scraps  of  Po- 
etry, d-c.,  by  R.  B. — a man  who  had  little  art 
in  making  money,  and  still  less  in  keeping  it ; 
but  was,  however,  a man  of  some  sense,  a 
great  deal  of  honesty,  and  an  unbounded  good 
will  to  every  creature,  rational  and  irrational. 
As  he  was  but  little  indebted  to  scholastic  edu- 
cation, and  bred  at  a plowMail,  his  performances 
must  be  strongly  tinctured  with  his  unpolished 
rustic  way  of  life;  but  as  I believe  they  are 
really  his  own,  it  may  be  some  entertainment 
to  a curious  observer  of  human  nature,  to  see 
how  a plowman  thinks  and  feels,  under  the 
pressure  of  love,  ambition,  anxiety,  grief,  with 
the  like  cares  and  passions,  which,  however 
diversified  by  the  modes  and  manners  of  life, 
operate  pretty  much  alike,  I believe,  on  all  the 
species. 

“ There  are  numbers  in  the  world  who  do 
not  wTant  sense  to  make  a figure,  so  much  as 
an  opinion  of  their  own  abilities,  to  put  them 
upon  recording  their  observations,  and  allow- 
ing them  the  same  importance,  which  they  do 
to  those  which  appear  in  print.” — Slienstone. 

44  Pleasing,  when  youth  is  long  expir’d,  to  trace 

The  forms  our  pencil  or  our  pen  designed  ! 

Such  was  our  youthful  air,  and  slmpe,  and  face. 

Such  the  soft  image  of  our  youthful  mind.” — Ibid. 

April,  1783. 

Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said  against 
love,  respecting  the  folly  and  weakness  it  leads 
a young,  inexperienced  mind  into  ; still  I think 
it  in  a great  measure  deserves  the  highest  enco- 
miums that  have  been  passed  upon  it.  If  any- 
thing on  earth  deserves  the  name  of  rapture  or 
transport,  it  is  the  feelings  of  green  eighteen, 
in  the  company  of  the  mistress  of  his  heart, 
when  she  repays  him  with  an  equal  return  of 
affection. 


August. 

There  is  certainly  some  connection  between 
love,  and  music,  and  poetry  ; and,  therefore,  I 
have  always  thought  a fine  touch  of  nature, 
that  passage  in  a modern  love  composition  : 

‘ As  tow’id  her  cot  he  jogg’d  along, 

Her  name  was  frequent  in  his  song.” 

For  my  own  part,  I never  had  the  least 
thought  or  inclination  of  turning  poet,  till  I got 
once  heartily  in  love ; and  then  rhyme  and 
song  were,  in  a manner,  the  spontaneous  lan- 
guage of  my  heart. 

September. 

I entirely  agree  with  that  judicious  philoso- 
pher, Mr.  Smith,  in  his  excellent  Theory  of 
Moral  Sentiments,  that  remorse  is  the  most 
painful  sentiment  that  can  embitter  the  human 
bosom.  Any  ordinary  pitch  of  fortitude  may 
bear  up  tolerably  well  under  those  calamities, 
in  the  procurement  of  which  we  ourselves  have 
had  no  hand  ; but  when  our  own  follies,  or 
crimes  have  made  us  miserable  and  wretched, 
to  bear  up  with  manly  firmness,  and  at  the 
same  time  have  a proper  penetential  sense  of 


our  misconduct,  is  a glorious  effort  of  self-com- 
mand. 

“ Of  all  the  numerous  ills  that  hurt  our  peace. 

That  press  the  soul,  or  wring  the  mind  with  anguish, 
Beyond  comparison  the  worst  are  those 
That  to  our  folly  or  our  guilt  we  owe. 

In  every  other  circumstance  the  mind 
Has  this  to  say — ‘ It  was  no  de<  d of  mine 
But  when  to  all  the  evi  s of  misfortune 
This  stius  is  added—-  Blame  thy  foolish  self!’ 

Or  worser  far,  the  pangs  o keen  remorse  ; 

The  torturing,  gnawing  consciousness  of  guilt— 

Of  guilt,  perhaps,  where  we’ve  involved  o hers; 

The  young,  the  innocent,  who  fondly  lov’d  us. 

Nay.  more,  that  very  love  their  cause  of  ruin  ! 

O hurtling  hell  ! in  all  thy  store  of  torments, 

There’s  not  a keener  lash! 

Lives  there  a man  so  firm,  who,  while  his  heart 
Feels  all  the  bitter  horrors  of  his  crime, 

(Jan  reason  down  its  agonizing  throbs  ; 

And,  after  proper  purposes  ot  amendment, 

Can  firmly  force  his  jarring  thoughts  to  peace  ? 

O happy  : happy  ! enviable  man  ! 

O glorious  magnanimity  of  soul !” 


March.  1784. 

I have  often  observed,  in  the  course  of  my  ex- 
perience of  human  life,  that  every  man,  even 
the  worst,  has  something  good  about  him  ; 
though  veryofen  nothing  else  than  a happy  tem- 
perament of  constitution  inclining  him  to  this  or 
that  virtue.  For  this  reason,  no  man  can  say  in 
what  degree  any  other  person,  besides  himself, 
can  be,  with  strict  juslice,  called  wicked.  Let 
any  of  the  strictest  character  for  regularity  of 
conduct  among  us,  examine  impartially  how 
many  vices  he  has  never  been  guilty  of,  not  from 
any  care  or  vigilance,  but  for  want  of  opportun- 
ity, or  some  accidental  circumstance  interven- 
ing ; how  many  of  the  weaknesses  of  mankind 
he  has  escaped,  because  he  was  out  of  the  line 
of  such  temptation;  and,  what  often,  if  not  al- 
ways, weighs  more  than  all  the  rest,  how  much 
he  is  indebted  to  the  world’s  good  opinion,  be- 
cause the  world  does  not  know  all.  I say,  any 
man  who  can  thus  think,  will  scan  the  failings, 
nay,  the  faulis  and  crimes,  of  mankind  around 
him.  with  a brother’s  eye. 

I have  often  courted  the  acquaintance  of  that 
part  of  mankind  commonly  known  by  the  ordi- 
nary phrase  of  blackguards,  sometimes  farther 
than  was  consistent  with  the  safety  of  my  char- 
acter ; those  who,  by  thoughtless  prodigality 
or  headstrong  passions  have  been  driven  to  ruin. 
Though  disgraced  by  follies,  nay,  sometimes 
“ stained  with  guilt,  *****  j have  yet 
found  among  them,  in  not  a few  instances,  some 
of  the  noblest  virtues,  magnanimity,  generosity, 
disinterested  friendship  ; and  even  modesty. 


April. 

As  T am  what  the  men  of  the  world,  if  they 
knew  such  a man,  would  call  a whimsical  mor- 
tal, I have  various  sources  of  pleasure  and  en- 
joyment, which  are,  in  a manner,  peculiar  to 
myself,  or  some  here  and  there  such  other  out- 
of-the-way  person.  Such  is  the  peculiar  pleas- 
ure I take  in  the  season  of  winter,  more  than  the 
rest  of  the  year.  This,  I believe,  may  be  part- 
ly owing  to  my  misfortunes  giving  my  mind  a 
melancholy  cast ; but  there  is  something  even 
in  the 

“Mighty  tempest,  and  the  hoary  waste 

Abrupt  and  deep,  stretch’d  o’er  the  buried  earth,”— 


LETTERS. 


225 


which  raises  the  mind  to  a serious  sublimity,  j 
favorable  to  every  thing  great  and  noble.  There 
is  scarcely  any  earthly  object  gives  me  mor§ — 

I do  not  know  if  I should  call  it  pleasure — but  | 
something  which  exalts  me,  something  which 
enraptures  me — than  to  walk  in  the  sheltered 
side  of  a wood,  or  high  plantation,  in  a cloudy 
winter-day,  and  hear  the  stormy  wind  howling 
among  the  trees  and  raving  over  the  plain.  It  j 
is  my  best  season  for  devotion ; my  mind  is  rapt  I 
in  a kind  of  enthusiasm  to  Him  who,  in  the  pom-  j 
pous  language  of  the  Hebrew  bard,  “ walks  on  | 
the  wings  of  the  wind.”  In  one  of  these  sea- 
sons, just  after  a train  of  misfortunes,  I compos- 
ed the  ibllowing  : 

The  wintry  west  extends  liis  blast,  &c. — Poems  p.  29. 

Shenstone  finely  observes,  that  love-verses 
writ  w ithout  any  real  passion,  are  the  most  nau- 
seous of  all  conceits  ; and  I have  often  thought 
that  no  man  can  be  a proper  critic  of  love  com- 
position, except  he  himself,  in  one  or  more  in- 
stances,have  been  a warm  votary  of  this  passion. 
As  I have  been  all  along  a miserable  dupe  to 
love,  and  have  been  led  into  a thousand  weak- 
nesses and  follies  by  it,  for  that  reason  I put  the 
more  confidence  in  my  critical  skill,  in  distin- 
guishing foppery  and  conceit  from  real  passion 
and  nature.  Whether  the  following  song  will 
stand  the  test,  I will  not  pretend  to  say,  because 
it  is  my  own  ; only  I can  say  it  was,  at  the  time, 
genuine  from  the  heart. 

Behind  yon  hills,  &c.— See  Poems,  p.  43. 


I think  the  whole  species  of  young  men  may 
be  naturally  enough  divided  into  two  grand  clas- 
ses, which  I shall  call  the  grave  and  the  merry; 
though,  by  the  by,  these  terms  do  not  with  pro- 
priety enough  express  my  ideas.  The  grave  I 
shall  cast  into  the  usual  division  of  those  who 
are  goaded  on  by  the  love  of  money,  and  those 
whose  darling  wish  is  to  make  a figure  in  the 
world.  The  merry  are,  the  men  of  pleasure  of 
all  denominations  ; the  jovial  lads,  who  have  too 
much  fire  and  spirit  to  have  any  settled  rule  of 
action  ; but,  without  much  deliberation,  follow 
the  strong  impulses  of  nature  : the  thoughtless, 
the  careless,  the  indolent — in  particular  he,  who. 
with  a happy  sweetness  of  natural  temper,  and 
a cheerful  vacancy  of  thought,  steals  through 
life — generally,  indeed,  in  poverty  and  obscuri- 
ty ; but  poverty  and  obscurity  are  only  evils  to 
him  who  can  sit  gravely  down  and  make  a re- 
pining comparison  between  his  own  situation 
and  that  of  others  ; and  lastly,  to  grace  the  quo- 
rom,  such  as  are,  generally,  those  whose  heads 
are  capable  of  all  the  towerings  of  genius,  and 
whose  hearts  are  warmed  with  all  the  delicacy 
of  feeling. 


As  the  grand  end  of  human  life  is  to  cultivate 
an  intercourse  with  that  Being  to  whom  we  owe 
our  life,  with  every  enjoyment  that  can  render 
life  delightful  ; and  to  maintain  an  integritive 
conduct  towards  our  fellow-creatures ; that  so, 
by  forming  piety  and  virtue  into  habit,  we  may 
be  fit  members  for  that  society  of  the  pious  and 
good,  which  reason  and  revelation  teach  us  to 
expect  beyond  the  grave  ; I do  not  see  that  the 
turn  of  mind  and  pursuits  of  any  son  of  poverty 
and  obscurity,  are  in  the  least  more  inimical  to 

15 


the  sacred  interests  of  piety  and  virtue,  than  the, 
even  lawful,  hustling  and  straining  after  the 
world’s  riches  and  honors  ; and  I do  not  see  but 
that  lie  may  gain  Heaven  as  well  (which,  by  the 
by,  is  no  mean  consideration,)  who  steals  through 
the  vale  of  life,  amusing  himself  with  every  lit- 
tle flower  that  fortune  throws  in  his  way  ; as 
he  who,  straining  straight  forward,  and  perhaps 
bespattering  all  about  him,  gains  some  of  life’s 
little  eminences;  where,  after  all,  he  can  only 
see,  and  be  seen,  a little  more  conspicuously 
than  what,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  he  is  apt  to 
term  the  poor  indolent  devil  he  has  left  behind 
him. 


There  is  a noble  sublimity,  a heart-melting 
tenderness,  in  some  of  our  ancient  ballads,  which 
show  them  to  be  the  work  of  a masterly  hand  ; 
and  it  has  often  given  me  many  a heart-ache  to 
reflect,  that  such  glorious  old  bards — bards  who 
very  probably  owed  all  their  talents  to  native 
genius,  yet  have  described  the  exploits  of  he- 
roes, the  pangs  of  disappoinment,  and  the  mel- 
tings of  love,  with  such  fine  strokes  of  nature— 
that  their  very  names  (O  how  mortifying  to  a 
bard’s  vanity  !)  are  now  “ buried  among  the 
things  which  were.’’ 

O ye  illustrious  names  unknown  ! who  could 
feel  so  strongly  and  describe  so  well,  the  last, 
the  meanest  of  the  muses’  train  — one  who, 
though  far  inferior  to  your  flights,  yet  eyes  your 
path,  and  with  trembling  wing  would  sometimes 
soar  after  you — a poor  rustic  bard,  unknown, 
pays  this  sympathetic  pang  to  your  memory  ! 
Some  of  you  tell  us  with  all  the  charms  of  verse, 
that  you  have  been  unfortunate  in  the  world — 
unfortunate  in  love  ; he  too  has  felt  the  loss  of 
his  little  fortune,  the  loss  of  friends,  and,  worse 
than  all,  the  loss  of  the  woman  he  adored. 
Like  you,  all  his  consolation  was  his  muse  ; she 
taught  him  in  rustic  measures  to  complain. 
Happy  could  he  have  done  it  with  your  strength 
of  imagination  and  flow  of  verse  ! May  the  turf 
lie  lightly  on  your  bones  ! and  may  you  now 
enjoy  that  solace  and  rest  which  this  world  rare- 
ly gives  to  the  heart  tuned  to  all  the  feelings  of 
poesy  and  love  ! 

This  is  all  worth  quoting  in  my  MSS.  and 
more  than  all.  R.  B. 


No.  III. 


TOME  AIKEN, 

The  gentleman  to  whom  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 
is  addressed. 

Ayrshire , 1796. 

Sir, — 

I was  with  Wilson,  rny  printer,  t’other  day, 
and  settled  all  our  by-gone  matters  between  us. 
After  I had  paid  him  all  demands,  I made  him 
the  offer  of  the  second  edition,  on  the  hazard  of 
being  paid  out  of  the  first  and  teadiest,  which 
he  declines.  By  his  account,  the  paper  of  a 
thousand  copies  would  cost  about  twenty-seven 
pounds,  and  the  printing  about  fifteen  or  sixteen  ; 
he  oflers  to  agree  to  this  for  the  printing,  if  I will 
advance  for  the  paper  ; but  this  you  know  is  out 
of  my  power,  so  farewell  the  hopes  of  a second 
edition  till  I grow  richer  ! an  epocha  which,  1 
think,  will  arrive  at  the  payment  of  the  British 
national  debt. 


226 


LETTERS. 


There  is  scarcely  any  thing  hurts  me  so  much 
in  being  disappointed  of  my  second  edition,  as 
rot  having  it  in  my  power  to  show  my  gratitude 
to  Mr.  Baliantyne,  by  publishing  my  poem  of 
The  Brigs  of  Ayr.  i would  detest  myself  as  a 
wretch,  if  I thought  I were  capable,  in  a very 
longlife,  of  forgetting  the  honest,  warm,  and  ten- 
der delicacy  with  which  he  enters  into  my  in- 
terests. I am  sometimes  pleased  with  myself 
in  my  grateful  sensations  ; but  I believe,  on  the 
whole,  I have  very  little  merit  in  it,  as  my  grat- 
itude is  not  a virtue,  the  consequence  of  reflec- 
tion, but  sheerly  the  instinctive  emotion  of  a 
heart  too  inattentive  to  allow  worldly  maxims 
and  views  to  settle  into  selfish  habits. 

I have  been  feeling  all  the  various  rotations 
and  movements  within,  respecting  the  excise. 
There  are  many  things  plead  strongly  against  it, 
the  uncertainty  of  getting  soon  into  business, 
the  consequences  of  my  follies,  which  may  per- 
haps make  it  impracticable  for  me  to  stay  at 
home ; and  besides,  I have  for  sometime  been 
pining  under  secret  wretchedness,  from  causes 
which  you  pretty  well  know — the  pang  of  disap- 
pointment, the  sting  of  pride,  with  some  wan- 
dering stabs  of  remorse,  which  never  fail  to  set- 
tle on  my  vitals  like  vultures,  when  attention  is 
not  called  away  by  the  calls  of  society,  or  the  va- 
garies of  the  muse.  Even  in  the  hour  of  social 
mirth,  my  gayety  is  the  madness  of  an  intoxi- 
cated criminal  under  the  hands  of  the  execu- 
tioner. All  these  reasons  urge  me  to  go  abroad  ; 
and  to  all  these  reasons  I have  only  one  answer 
— the  feelings  of  a father.  This,  in  the  pres- 
ent mood  I am  in,  overbalances  everything  that 
can  be  laid  in  the  scale  against  it. 

# * * * 

You  may  perhaps  think  it  an  extravagant  fan- 
cy, but  it  is  a sentiment  which  strikes  home  to 
my  very  soul ; though  sceptical  in  some  points 
of  our  current  belief,  yet,  I think,  I have  every 
evidence  for  the  reality  of  a life  beyond  the  stint- 
ed bourne  of  our  present  existence  ; if  so,  then 
how  should  I,  in  the  presence  of  that  tremendous 
Being,  the  Author  of  existence,  how  should  I 
meet  the  reproaches  of  those  who  stand  to  me  in 
the  dear  relation  of  children,  whom  I deserted 
in  the  smiling  innocency  of  helpless  infancy  ? 0 
thou  great,  unknown  Power!  thou  Almighty 
God  ! who  has  lighted  up  reason  in  my  breast, 
and  blessed  me  with  immortality  ! I have  fre- 
quently wandered  from  that  order  and  regulari- 
ty necessary  for  the  perfection  of  thy  works, 
yet  thou  hast  never  left  me  nor  forsaken  me. 

* * * * 

Since  I wrote  the  foregoing  sheet,  I have  seen 
something  of  the  storm  of  mischief  thickening 
over  my  folly-devoted  head.  Should  you,  my 
friends,  my  benefactors,  be  successful  in  your 
applications  for  me,  perhaps  it  may  not  be  in 
my  power  in  that  way  to  reap  the  fruit  of  your 
friendly  efforts  What  I have  written  in  the 
preceding  pages  is  the  settled  tenor  of  my  pres- 
ent resolution  ; but  should  inimical  circumstan- 
ces forbid  me  closing  with  your  kind  offer,  or, 
enjoying  it,  only  threaten  to  entail  farther  mis- 
ery— 

* * * * 


To  tell  the  truth,  I have  little  reason  for  com- 
plaint, as  the  world,  in  general,  has  been  kind 
to  me,  fully  up  to  my  deserts.  I was,  for  some 
time  past,  fast  getting  into  the  pining,  distrust- 


ful snarl  of  the  misanthrope.  I saw  myself  alone 
unfit  for  the  struggle  of  life,  shrinking  at  every 
rising  cloud  in  the  chance-directed  atmosphere 
of  fortune,  while,  all  defenceless,  I looked  about 
in  vain  for  a cover.  It  never  occurred  to  me,  at 
least  never  with  the  force  it  deserved,  that  this 
world  is  a busy  scene,  and  man  a creature  des- 
tined for  a progressive  struggle;  and  that  however 
I might  possess  a warm  heart,  and  inoffensive 
manners,  (which  last,  by  the  by.  was  rather 
more  than  I could  well  boast)  still,  more  than 
these  passive  qualities,  there  was  something  to 
be  done.  W hen  all  my  school-fellows  and  youth- 
ful compeers  (those  misguided  few  excepted  who 
joined,  to  use  a Gentoo  phrase,  the  hallaehores 
of  the  human  race,)  were  striking  off  with  eager 
hope  and  earnest  intention  in  some  one  or  other 
of  the  many  paths  of  busy  life,  I was  standing 
‘ idle  in  the  market  place,’  or  only  left  the  chase 
of  the  butterfly  from  flower  to  flower,  to  hunt 
fancy  from  whim  to  whim. 

* * * * 

You  see,  Sir,  that  if  to  know  one’s  errors 
were  a probability  of  mending  them,  I stand  a 
fair  chance,  but  according  to  the  reverend  West- 
minster divines,  though  conviction  must  pre- 
cede conversion,  it  is  very  far  from  always  im- 
plying it.* 

* * * * 


NO.  IV. 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP  OF  DUNLOP. 

Ayrshire , 1786. 

Madam, — 

I am  truly  sorry  l was  not  at  home  yesterday 
when  I was  so  much  honored  with  your  order 
for  my  copies,  and  incomparably  more  by  the 
handsome  compliments  you  are  pleased  to  pay 
my  poetic  abilities.  I am  fully  persuaded  that 
there  is  not  any  class  of  mankind  so  feelingly 
alive  to  the  titillations  of  applause,  as  the  sons 
of  Parnassus  ; nor  is  it  easy  to  conceive  how 
the  heart  of  the  poor  bard  dances  with  rapture, 
when  those  whose  character  in  life  gives  them 
a right  to  be  polite  judges,  honor  him  with  their 
approbation.  Had  you  been  thoroughly  acquain- 
ted with  me,  Madam,  you  could  not  have  touch- 
ed my  darling  heart-chord  more  sweetly  than 
by  noticing  my  attempts  to  celebrate  your  illus- 
trious ancestor,  the  Saviour  of  his  country , 

“ Great  patriot-hero  ! ill  requited  chief!” 

The  first  book  I met  with  in  my  early  years, 
which  I perused  with  pleasure,  was  The  Life 
of  Hannibal ; the  next  was  The  History  of  Sir 
XVilliam  Wallace;  for  several  of  my  earlier 
years  I had  few  other  authors  ; and  many  a so- 
litary hour  have  I stole  out,  after  the  laborious 
vocations  of  the  day,  to  shed  a tear  over  their 
glorious  but  unfortunate  stories.  In  those  boy- 
ish days  I remember  in  particular  being  struck 
with  that  part  of  Wallace’s  story  where  these 
lines  occur — 

“ Syne  to  the  Leglen  woods,  when  it  was  late. 

To  make  a silent  and  a safe  retreat.” 

I chose  a fine  summer  Sunday,  the  only  day 
my  line  of  life  allowed,  and  walked  half  a doz- 

•Tliis  letter  was  evidently  written  under  the  dis- 
tress of  mind  occasioned  by  our  Foet’s  separation 
from  Mrs.  Burns.— E. 


LETTERS. 


en  of  miles  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  Leglen 
wood,  wish  as  much  devout  enthusiasm  as  ever 
pilgrim  did  to  Loretto  ; and,  as  1 explored  ev- 
ery den  and  dell  where  I could  suppose  my  he- 
roic countrymen  to  have  lodged,  1 recollect 
(for  even  then  I was  a rhymer)  that  my  heart 
glowed  with  a wish  to  be  able  to  make  a song 
on  him  in  some  measure  equal  to  his  merits. 


NO.  V. 

TO  MRS.  STEWART,  OF  STAIR. 

1786. 

Madam. — 

The  hurry  of  my  preparations  for  going  abroad 
has  hindered  me  trom  performing  my  promise 
so  soon  as  I intended.  I have  here  sent  you  a 
parcel  of  songs,  &c.,  which  never  made  their  ap- 
pearance, except  to  a friend  or  two  at  most. 
Perhaps  some  of  them  may  be  no  great  enter- 
tainment to  you  ; but  of  that  I am  far  from  be- 
ing an  adequate  judge.  The  song  to  the  tune 
of  Et trick  Banks , you  will  easily  see  the  impro- 
priety of  exposing  much,  even  in  manuscript.  I 
think,  myself,  it  has  some  merit,  both  as  a tol- 
erable description  of  one  of  Nature’s  sweetest 
scenes,  a J uly  evening,  and  one  of  the  finest  pie- 
ces of  Nature’s  workmanship,  the  finest,  indeed, 
we  know  anything  of,  an  amiable,  beautiful 
young  woman  ;*  but  I have  no  common  friend 
to  procure  me  that  permission,  without  which  I 
would  not  dare  to  spread  the  copy. 

I am  quite  aware,  Madam,  what  task  the 
world  w’ould  assign  me  in  this  letter.  The  ob- 
scure bard,  when  any  of  the  great  condescend 
to  take  notice  of  him,  should  heap  the  altar  with 
the  incense  of  flattery.  Their  high  ancestry,  their 
own  great  and  godlike  qualities  and  actions, 
should  be  recounted  with  the  most  exaggerated 
description.  This,  Madam,  is  a task  for  which  I 
am  altogetherunfit.  Besides  a certain  disqualify- 
ing pride  of  heart,  I know  nothing  of  your  con- 
nections in  life,  and  have  no  access  to  where 
your  real  character  is  to  be  found — the  company 
of  your  compeers;  and  more,  I am  afraid  that 
even  the  most  refined  adulation  is  by  no  means 
the  road  to  your  good  opinion. 

One  feature  of  your  character  I shall  ever  with 
grateful  pleasure  remember — the  reception  1 got 
when  I had  the  honor  of  waiting  on  you  at  Stair. 
I am  little  acquainted  with  politeness  ; but  I 
know  a good  deal  of  benevolence  of  temper  and 
goodness  of  heart.  Surely,  did  those  in  exalted 
stations  know  how  happy  they  couid  make  some 
classes  of  their  inferiors  by  condescension  and 
affability,  they  would  never  stand  so  high,  meas- 
uring out  with  every  look,  the  height  of  their  el- 
evation, but  condescend  as  sweetly  as  did  Mrs. 
Stewart  of  Stair. 


No.  VI. 

IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  NINE.  AmEN.  We, 
Robert  Burns,  by  virtue  of  a Warrant  from 
Nature,  bearing  date  the  Twenty-fifth  day 
of  January,  Anno  Domini  one  thousand  sev- 

* The  song  enclosed  is  the  one  beginning, 

Twas  even — the  dewy  fields  were  green.  &c. 

See  Poems,  p ■ 76. 


227 

en  hundred  and  fifty-nine,*  Poet  Laureat 
and  Bard  in  Chief  in  and  over  the  Districts 
and  Countries  of  Kyle,  Cunningham,  and 
Garrick,  of  old  extent,  To  our  trusty  and  well 
beloved  William  Chalmers  and  John  M’Ad- 
am,  Students  and  Practitioners  in  the  ancient 
and  mysterious  Science  of  Confounding  Right 
and  Wrong. 

Right  Trusty, — 

Be  it  known  unto  you,  That,  whereas,  in 
the  course  of  our  care  and  watchings  over  the 
Order  and  Police  of  all  and  sundry  the  Manu- 
facturers, Retainers,  and  Venders  of  Poe- 
sy; Bards,  Poets,  Poetasters,  Rhymers.  Jinglers, 
Songsters,  Ballad-singers,  &c.,  &,c.,  &c.,  &c., 
&c.,  male  and  female — We  have  discovered  a 
certain  * * *,  nefarious,  abominable,  and  wick- 
ed Song,  or  Ballad,  a copy  whereof  We  have 
here  enclosed  ; Our  Will  therefore  is,  that 
Ye  pitch  upon  and  appoint  the  most  execrable 
Individual  of  that  most  execrable  Species,  known 
by  the  appellation,  phrase,  and  nickname  of  The 
Deil's  Yell  Nowte  ;+  and,  after  having  caus- 
ed him  to  kindle  a fire  at  the  Cross  of  Ayr,  ye 
shall  at  noontide  of  the  day,  put  into  the  said 
wretch’s  merciless  hands  the  said  copy  of  the 
said  nefarious  and  wicked  Song,  to  be  consum- 
ed by  fire  in  the  presence  of  all  Beholders,  in 
abhorrence  of,  and  terrorum  to  all  such  Compo- 
sitions and  Composers.  And  this  in  no  wise 
leave  ye  undone,  but  have  it  executed  in  every 
point  as  this  Our  Mandate  bears,  before  the 
twenty-fourth  current,  when  in  person  We 
hope  to  applaud  your  faithfulness  and  zeal. 

Given  at  Mauchline,  this  twentieth  day  of 
November,  Anno  Domini  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  eighty-six.f 

God  save  the  bard  ! 


NO.  VII. 

DR.  BLACKLOCK  TOTHE  REVER- 
END MR.  G.  LOWRIE. 

Reverend  and  Dear  Sir, — 

I ought  to  have  acknowledged  your  favor 
long  ago,  not  only  as  a testimony  of  your  kind 
remembrance,  but  as  it  gave  me  an  opportunity 
of  sharing  one  of  the  finest,  and,  perhaps,  one  of 
the  most  genuine  entertainments,  of  which  the 
human  mind  is  susceptible.  A number  of  avoca- 
tions retarded  my  progress  in  reading  the  poems; 
at  last,  however,  I have  finished  that  pleasing 
perusal.  Many  instances  have  I seen  of  Nature’s 
force  and  beneficence  exerted  under  numerous 
and  formidable  disadvantages  ; but  none  equal  to 
that  which  you  have  been  kind  enough  to  pre- 
sent me.  There  is  a pathos  and  delicacy  in  his 
serious  poems,  a vein  of  wit  and  humor  in  those 
of  a more  festive  turn,  which  cannot  be  too 
much  admired,  nor  too  warmly  approved  ; and 
I think  I shall  never  open  the  book  without 
feeling  my  astonishment  renewed  and  increas- 
ed. It  was  my  wish  to  have  expressed  my  ap- 
probation in  verse  ; but  whether  from  declining 
life,  or  a temporary  depression  of  spirits,  it  is  at 
present  out  of  my  power  to  accomplish  that 
agreeable  intention. 

* His  birth-day.  t Old  Bachelors. 

\ Enclosed  was  the  ballad,  probably  Holy  Willie' $ 
Piayer. — E. 


228 


LETTERS. 


Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of  Morals  in  this  Uni- 
versity, had  formerly  read  me  three  of  the  po- 
ems, and  I had  desired  him  to  get  my  name 
among  the  subscribers ; but  whether  this  was 
done,  or  not,  1 never  could  learn.  I have  little 
intercourse  with  Dr.  Blair,  but  will  take  care  to 
have  the  poems  communicated  to  him  by  the  in- 
tervention of  some  mutual  friend.  It  has  been 
told  me  by  a gentleman,  to  whom  I showed 
the  performances,  and  who  sought  a copy  with 
diligence  and  ardor,  that  the  whole  impression 
is  already  exhausted.  It  were,  therefore,  much 
to  be  wished,  for  the  sake  of  the  young  man, 
that  a second  edition,  more  numerous  than  the 
former,  could  immediately  be  printed  ; as  it  ap- 
pears certain  that  its  intrinsic  merit,  and  the 
exertion  of  the  author’s  friends,  might  give  it  a 
more  universal  circulation  than  anything  of  the 
kind  which  has  been  published  within  my 
memory.* 


NO.  VIII. 

FROM  THE  REVEREND  MR. 

LO  WRIE. 

22 d December , 1786. 

Dear  Sir, — 

I last  week  received  a letter  from  Dr.  Black- 
lock,  in  which  he  expresses  a desire  of  seeing 
you  ; l write  this  to  you,  that  you  may  lose  no 
time  in  waiting  upon  him,  should  you  not  yet 
have  seen  him. 

* * * * 

I rejoice  to  hear,  from  all  corners,  of  your  rising 
fame,  and  I wish  and  expect  it  may  tower  still 
higher  by  the  new  publication.  But,  as  a friend, 
I warn  you  to  prepare  to  meet  with  your  share 
of  detraction  and  envy — a train  that  always  ac- 
company great  men.  For  your  comfort,  I am 
in  great  hopes  that  the  number  of  your  friends  and 
admirers  will  increase,  and  that  you  have  some 
chance  of  ministerial,  or  even  * * * * * patron- 
age. Now,  my  friend,  such  rapid  success  is 
very  uncommon  : and  do  you  think  yourself  in 
no  danger  of  suffering  by  applause  and  a full 
purse  ? Remember  Solomon’s  advice,  which  he 
spoke  from  experience, “ stronger  is  he  that,  con- 
quers,” &c.  Keep  fast  hold  of  your  rural  sim- 
plicity and  purity,  like  Telemachus,  by  Men- 
tor’s aid,  in  Calypso’s  isle,  or  even  in  that  of 
Cyprus.  I hope  you  have  also  Minerva  with  you. 
I need  not  tell  you  how  much  a modest  diffidence 
and  invincible  temperance  adorn  the  most  shi- 
ning talents,  and  elevate  the  mind,  and  exalt  and 
refine  the  imagination,  even  of  a poet. 

I hope  you  will  not  imagine  I speak  from  sus- 
picion or  evil  report.  I assure  you  that  I speak 
from  love  and  good  report,  and  good  opinion, 
and  a strong  desire  to  see  you  shine  as  much  in 
the  sunshine  as  you  have  been  in  the  shade;  and 
in  the  practice,  as  you  do  in  the  theory  of  vir- 
tue. This  is  my  prayer,  in  return  for  your  el- 
egant composition  in  verse.  All  here  join  in 

* The  reader  will  perceive  that  this  is  the  letter 
which  produced  the  determination  of  our  Bard  to 
gave  up  his  scheme  of  going  to  the  West  Indies,  and 
to  try  the  fate  of  a new  Edition  of  his  Poems  in  Ed- 
inburgh. A copy  of  this  letter  was  sent  by  Mr.  Low- 
rie  to  Mr.  G.  Hamilton,  and  by  him  communicated  to 
Burns,  among  whose  papers  it  was  found. 

For  an  account  of  Air.  Lowrie  and  his  family,  see 
the  letter  of  Gilbert  Burns  to  the  Editor. 


compliments  and  good  wishes  for  your  further 
prosperity. 


NO.  IX. 

TO  MR.  CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh , 21th  Dec.  1786. 
My  Dear  Friend, — 

I confess  I have  sinned  the  sin  for  which 
is  hardly  any  forgiveness — ingratitude  to  friend- 
ship— in  not  writing  you  sooner  ; but  of  all  men 
living  I had  intended  to  send  you  an  entertain- 
ing letter  ; and  by  all  the  plodding,  stupid  pow- 
ers, that  in  nodding  conceited  majesty  preside 
over  the  dull  routine  of  business — a heavily  sol- 
emn oath  this  ! — I am,  and  have  been  ever 
since  I came  to  Edinburgh,  as  unfit  to  write  a 
letter  of  humor  as  to  write  a commentary  on  the 
Revelations 

* * * * 

To  make  you  some  amends  for  what,  before 
you  reach  this  paragragh,  you  will  have  suffered 
I enclose  you  two  poems  I have  carded  and  spun 
since  1 passed  Glenbuck.  One  blank  in  the  ad- 
dress to  Edinburgh,  “ Fair  B ,”  is  the  heav- 

enly Miss  Burnet,  daughter  to  Lord  Monboddo, 
at  whose  house  I had  the  honor  to  be  more  than 
once.  There  has  not  been  any  thing  nearly  like 
her,  in  all  the  combinations  of  beauty,  grace, 
and  goodness,  the  great  Creator  ha3  formed, 
since  Milton’s  Eve  on  the  first  day  of  her  exist- 
ence. 

I have  sent  you  a parcel  of  subscription-bills  ; 
and  have  written  to  Mr.  Ballentyne  and  Mr.  Ai- 
ken, to  call  on  you  for  some  of  them,  if  they 
want  them.  My  direction  is — care  of  Andrew 
Bruce,  Merchant,  Bridge-street. 


NO.  X. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  EG-LINTON- 

Edinburgh,  January,  1787. 

My  Lord, — 

As  I have  but  slender  pretensions  to  philoso- 
phy, I cannot  rise  to  the  exalted  ideas  of  a citi- 
zen of  the  world  ; but  have  all  those  national 
prejudices  which,  I believe,  grow  peculiarly, 
strong  in  the  breast  of  every  Scotchman.  There 
is  scarcely  anything  to  which  I am  so  feelingly 
alive,  as  the  honor  and  welfare  of  my  country; 
and,  as  a poet,  I have  no  higher  enjoyment  than 
singing  her  sons  and  daughters.  Fate  had  cast 
my  station  in  the  veriest  shades  of  life  ; but  nev- 
er did  a heart  pant  more  ardently  than  mine  to 
be  distinguished  ; though  till  very  lately,  I look- 
ed in  vain  on  every  side  for  a ray  of  light.  It  is 
easy,  then,  to  guess  how  much  I was  gratified 
with  the  countenance  and  approbation  of  one  of 
my  country’s  most  illustrious  sons,  when  Mr. 
Wauchope  called  on  me  yesterday  on  the  part 
of  your  Lordship.  Y our  munificence,  my  Lord, 
certainly  deserves  my  very  grateful  acknowledg- 
ments ; but  your  patronage  is  a bounty  pecu- 
liarly suited  to  my  feelings.  I am  not  master 
enough  of  the  etiquette  of  life,  to  know  wheth- 
er there  be  not  some  impropriety  in  troubling 
your  Lordship  with  my  thanks;  but  my  heart 
whispered  me  to  do  it.  From  the  emotions  of 
my  inmost  soul  I do  it.  Selfish  ingratitude,  I 


LETTERS. 


hope,  I am  incapable  of ; and  mercenary  servil- 
ity, I trust,  I shall  ever  have  so  much  honest 
pride  as  to  detest. 

No.  XL 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  15 th  January,  1787. 

Madam, — 

Yours  of  the  9th  current,  which  I am  this 
moment  honored  with,  is  a deep  reproacli  to  me 
for  ungrateful  neglect.  I will  tell  you  the  real 
truth,  for  I am  miserably  awkward  at  a fib  ; I 
wished  to  have  written  to  Dr.  Moore  before  1 
wrote  to  you  ; but  though  every  day  since  I re- 
ceived yours  of  December  30th.  the  idea,  the 
wish  to  write  to  him,  has  constantly  pressed  on 
my  thoughts,  yet  for  my  soul  I could  not  set 
about  it.  I know  his  fame  and  character,  and 
I am  one  of  “ the  sons  of  little  men.”  To  write 
him  a mere  matter-of-fact  affair,  like  a mer- 
chant’s order, would  be  disgracing  the  little  char- 
acter I have ; and  to  write  the  author  of  The 
View  of  Society  and  Manners  a letter  of  senti- 
ment— I declare  every  artery  runs  cold  at  the 
thought.  I shall  try,  however,  to  write  to  him 
to-morrow  or  next  day.  His  kind  interposition 
in  my  behalf  1 have  aready  experienced,  as  a 
gentleman  waited  on  me  the  other  day  on  the 
part  of  Lord  Eglinton,  with  ten  guineas,  by  way 
of  subscription  for  two  copies  of  my  next  edi- 
tion. 

The  word  you  object  to  in  the  mention  I have 
made  of  my  glorious  countryman  and  your  im- 
mortal ancestor,  is  indeed  borrowed  from  Thom- 
son ; but  it  does  not  strike  me  as  an  improper 
epithet.  I distrusted  my  own  judgment  on  your 
finding  fault  with  it,  and  applied  for  the  opinion 
of  some  of  the  literati  here,  who  honor  me  with 
their  critical  strictures,  and  they  all  allow  it  to 
be  proper.  The  song  you  ask  I cannot  recollect, 
and  1 have  not  a copy  of  it.  I have  not  compos- 
ed anything  on  the  great  Wallace,  except  what 
you  have  seen  in  print,  and  the  inclosed,  which 
I will  print  in  this  edition.*^  You  will  see  I 
have  mentioned  some  others  of  the  name.  When 
I composed  my  Vision  long  ago,  I attempted  a 
description  of  Koyle,  of  which  the  additional 
stanzas  are  a part,  as  it  originally  stood.  My 
heart  glows  with  a wish  to  be  able  to  do  justice 
to  the  merits  of  the  Saviour  of  his  country, 
which,  sooner  or  later,  I shall  at  least  attempt. 

You  are  afraid  I shall  grow  intoxicated  with 
my  prosperity  as  a poet.  Alas  ! Madam,  I know 
myself  and  the  world  too  well.  I do  not  mean 
any  airs  of  affected  modesty  ; I am  willing  to 
believe  that  my  abilities  deserved  some  notice ; 
but  in  a most  enlightened,  informed  age  and  na- 
tion, when  poetry  is  and  has  been  the  study  of 
men  of  the  first  natural  genius,  aided  with  all 
the  powers  of  polite  learning,  polite  books,  and 
polite  company — to  be  dragged  forth  to  the  full 
glare  of  learned  and  polite  observation,  with  all 
my  imperfections  of  awkward  rusticity  and  crude 
unpolished  ideas  on  my  head — I assure  you, 
Madam.  I do  not  dissemble  when  I tell  you  I 
tremble  for  the  consequences.  The  novelty  of 
a poet  in  my  obscure  situation,  without  any  of 

* Stanzas  in  the  Vision,  beginning  “ By  stately 
tower  or  palace  fair/’  anti  ending  with  the  firBt  Du- 
an.— E. 


229 

those  advantages  which  are  reckoned  necessary 
for  that  character,  at  least  at  this  time  of  day, 
has  raised  a partial  tide  of  public  notice,  which 
has  borne  me  to  a height  where  I am  absolute- 
ly, feelingly  certain  my  abilities  are  inadequate 
to  support  me  ; too  surely  do  I see  that  time, 
when  the  same  tide  will  leave  me,  and  recede, 
perhaps,  as  far  below  the  mark  of  truth.  I do 
not  say  this  in  the  ridiculous  affectation  of  self- 
abasement  and  modesty.  I have  studied  my- 
self, and  know  what  ground  I occupy  ; and, 
however  a friend  or  the  world  may  differ  from 
me  in  that  particular,  I stand  for  my  own  opin- 
ion in  silent  resolve,  with  all  the  tenaciousness 
of  property.  I mention  this  to  you,  once  for  all, 
to  disburden  my  mind,  and  I do  not  wish  to 
hear  or  say  more  about  it. — But 

“ When  proud  fortune’sebbing  tide  recedes,” 
you  will  bear  me  witness,  that,  when  my  bub- 
ble of  fame  was  at  the  highest,  I stood  unintox- 
icated, with  the  inebriating  cup  in  my  hand, 
looking  forward  with  rueful  resolve  to  the  hast- 
ening time  when  the  blow  of  Calumny  should 
dash  it  to  the  ground,  with  all  the  eagerness  of 
vengeful  triumph. 

# # # # 

Your  patronising  me,  and  interesting  yourself 
in  my  fame  and  character  as  a poet,  1 rejoice  in; 
it  exalts  me  in  my  own  idea;  and  whether  you 
can  or  cannot  aid  me  in  my  subscription  is  a tri- 
fle. Has  a paltry  subscription-bill  any  charms 
to  the  heart  of  a bard,  compared  with  the  pat- 
ronage of  the  descendant  of  the  immortal  Wal- 
lace ? 


No.  XII. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Sir, — 

Mrs.  Dunlop  has  been  so  kind  as  to  send  mo 
extracts  of  letters  she  has  had  from  you,  where 
you  do  the  rustic  bard  the  honor  of  noticing  him 
and  his  works.  Those  who  have  felt  the  anxi- 
eties and  solicitude  of  authorship,  can  only  know 
what  pleasure  it  gives  to  be  noticed  in  such  a 
manner  by  judges  of  the  first  character.  Your 
criticisms,  Sir,  I receive  with  reverence  ; only 
I am  sorry  they  mostly  came  too  late  ; a pec- 
cant passage  or  two,  that  I would  certainly  have 
altered,  were  gone  to  the  press. 

The  hope  to  be  admired  for  ages  is,  in  by  far 
the  greater  part  of  those  even  who  were  authors 
of  repute,  an  unsubstantial  dream.  For  my  part, 
my  first  ambition  was,  and  still  my  strongest 
wish  is,  to  please  my  compeers,  the  rustic  in- 
mates of  the  hamlet,  while  ever-changing  lan- 
guage and  manners  shall  allow  me  to  be  relish- 
ed and  understood.  I am  very  willing  to  admit 
that.  I have  some  poetical  abilities  ; and  as  few, 
if  any  writers,  either  moral  or  political,  are  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  classes  of  mankind 
among  whom  I have  chiefly  mingled,  I may 
have  seen  men  and  manners  in  a different  pha- 
sis  from  what  is  common,  which  may  assist 
originality  of  thought.  Still  I know  very  well 
the  novelty  of  my  character  has  by  far  the  great- 
est share  in  the  learned  and  polite  notice  I have 
lately  had  ; and  in  a language  where  Pope  and 
Churchill  have  raised  the  laugh,  and  Shenstone 
and  Gray  drawn  the  tear — where  Thomson  and 
Beattie  have  painted  the  landscape,  and  Lyttle- 


LETTERS. 


230 

ton  and  Collins  described  the  heart,  I am  not 
vain  enough  to  hope  for  distinguished  poetic 
fame. 


No.  XIII. 

PROM  DR.  MOORE, 

Clifford -street , January  3d,  1787. 

Sir, — 

I have  just  received  your  letter,  by  which  I 
find  I have  reason  to  complain  of  my  friend  Mrs. 
Dunlop,  for  transmitting  to  you  extracts  from 
my  letters  to  her,  by  much  too  freely  and  too 
carelessly  written  for  your  perusal.  I must  for- 
give her,  however,  in  consideration  of  her  good 
intention,  as  you  will  forgive  me,  I hope,  for 
the  freedom  I use  with  certain  expressions,  in 
consideration  of  my  admiration  of  the  poems  in 
general.  If  I may  judge  of  the  author’s  disposi- 
tion from  his  works,  with  all  the  good  qualities 
of  a poet,  he  has  not  the  irritable  temper  ascrib- 
ed to  that  race  of  men  by  one  of  their  own  num- 
ber, who  you  have  the  happiness  to  resemble  in 
ease  and  curious  felicity  of  expression.  Indeed 
the  poetical  beauties,  however  original  and  bril- 
liant, and  lavishly  scattered,  are  not  all  I admire 
in  your  works  ; the  love  of  your  native  coun- 
try., that  feeling  sensibility  to  all  the  objects  of 
humanity,  and  the  independent  spirit  which 
breathes  through  the  whole,  give  me  a most  fa- 
vorable impression  of  the  poet,  and  have  made 
me  often  regret  that  I did  not  see  the  poems, 
the  certain  effect  of  which  would  have  been  my 
seeing  the  author  last  summer,  when  I was  lon- 
ger in  Scotland  than  I have  been  for  many 
years. 

I rejoice  very  sincerely  at  the  encouragement 
you  receive  at  Edinburgh,  and  I think  you  pe- 
culiarly fortunate  in  the  patronage  of  Dr.  Blair, 
who  I am  informed  interests  himself  very  much 
lor  you.  I beg  to  be  remembered  to  him  ; no- 
body can  have  a warmer  regard  for  that  gentle- 
man than  I have,  which,  independent  of  the 
worth  of  his  character,  would  be  kept  alive  by 
the  memory  of  our  common  friend,  the  late  Mr. 
George  B e. 

Before  I received  your  letter,  I sent  enclosed 

in  a letter  to , a sonnet  by  Miss  Williams, 

a young  poetical  lady,  which  she  wrote  on  read- 
ing your  Mountain-Daisy  ; perhaps  it  may  not 
displease  you.* 

1 have  been  trying  to  add  to  the  number  of 
your  subscribers,  but  find  many  of  my  acquaint- 
ance are  already  among  them.  .1  have  only  to 
add,  that  with  every  sentiment  of  esteem  and 
the  most  cordial  good  wishes,  I am, 

Your  obedient,  humble  servant, 

J.  MOORE. 


* The  sonnet  is  as  follows  : 

While  soon  “the  garden’s  flaunting  flow'rs”  decay. 

And  scattered  on  the  earth  neg’ected  lie, 

The  “ Mountain-Daisy,” cherished  by  the  ray 
A poet  drew  from  heaven,  shall  never  die. 

Ah  ! like  the  lonely  flower,  the  poet  rose 
’Mid  penury’s  hare  soil  and  bitter  gale  : 

He  felt  each  storm  that  on  the  mountain  blows, 

Nor  ever  knew  the  shelter  of  the  vale. 

By  genius  in  her  native  vigor  nursed. 

On  nature  with  impassion’d  look  he  gazed. 

Then  through  the  cloud  of  adverse  fortune  burst 
Indignant,  and  in  light  unborrow’d  blazed. 

Scotia  ! from  rude  affl  ctions  shield  thy  bard, 

His  heaven-taught  numbers  Fame  herself  will  guard. 


No.  XIV. 

t;o  the  rev.g.  lowrie,  ofnew- 

MILLS,  NEAR  KILMARNOCK 

Edinburgh,  5th  Feb.  1787. 
Reverend  and  Dear  Sir, — 

When  I look  at  the  date  of  your  kind  letter 
my  heart  reproaches  me  severely  with  ingrati- 
tude in  neglecting  so  long  to  answer  it.  1 will 
not  trouble  you  with  any  account,  by  way  of 
apology,  of  my  hurried  life  and  distracted  atten- 
tion : do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  my  delay 
by  no  means  proceeded  from  want  of  respect. 
I feel,  and  ever  shall  feel,  for  you,  the  mingled 
sentiments  of  esteem  for  a friend,  and  reverence 
for  a father. 

I thank  you,  Sir,  with  all  my  soul,  for  your 
friendly  hints  ; though  I do  not  need  them  so 
much  as  my  friends  are  apt  to  imagine.  You 
are  dazzled  with  newspaper  accounts  and  dis- 
tant reports;  but  in  reality,  I have  no  great  temp- 
tation to  be  intoxicated  with  the  cup  of  prosper- 
ity. Novelty  may  attract  the  attention  of  man- 
kind awhile  ; to  it  I owe  my  present  eclat ; but 
I see  the  time  not  far  distant,  when  the  popular 
tide,  which  has  borne  me  to  a height  of  which  I 
am  perhaps  unworthy,  shall  recede  with  silent 
celerity,  and  leave  me  a barren  waste  of  sand, 
to  descend  at  my  leisure  to  my  former  station. 
I do  not  say  this  in  the  affectation  of  modesty  ; 
I see  the  consequence  is  unavoidable,  and  am 
prepared  for  it.  I had  been  at  a good  deal  of 
pains  to  form  a just,  impartial  estimate  of  my 
intellectual  powers,  before  I came  here  ; I have 
not  added,  since  I came  to  Edinburgh,  anything 
to  the  account ; and  I trust  I shall  take  every 
atom  of  it  back  to  my  shades,  the  coverts  of  my 
unnoticed,  early  years. 

In  Dr.  Blacklock,  whom  I see  very  often,  I 
have  found,  what  I would  have  expected  in  our 
friend,  a clear  head  and  an  excellent  heart. 

By  far  the  most  agreeable  hours  I spend  in 
Edinburgh  must  be  placed  to  the  account  of 
Miss  Lowrie  and  her  piano-forte.  I cannot  help 
repeating  to  you  and  Mrs.  Lowrie  a compliment 
that  Mr.  Mackenzie,  the  celebrated  “ Man  of 
Feeling,”  paid  to  Miss  Lowrie,  the  other  night, 
at  the  concert.  I had  come  in  at  the  interlude, 
and  sat  down  by  him,  till  I saw  Miss  Lowrie  in 
a seat  not  very  far  distant,  and  went  up  to  pay 
my  respects  to  her.  On  my  return  to  Mr.  Mac- 
kenzie, he  asked  me  who  she  was  ; I told  him 
’twas  i he  daughter  of  a reverend  friend  of  mine 
m the  west  country.  He  returned,  There  was 
something  very  striking,  to  his  idea,  in  her  ap- 
pearance. On  my  desiring  to  know  what  it  was, 
he  was  pleased  to  say,  “ She  has  a great  deal  of 
the  elegance  of  a well-bred  lady  about  her,  with 
all  the  sweet  simplicity  of  a country-girl.” 

My  compliments  to  all  the  happy  inmates  of 
Saint  Margarets.  I am,  dear  Sir, 

Yours  most  gratefully, 
ROBT.  BURNS. 


No.  XV. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Edinburgh,  15 th  February,  1787. 

Sir — 

Pardon  my  seeming  neglect  in  delaying  so 
long  to  acknowledge  the  honor  you  have  done 


LETTERS. 


231 


me,  in  your  kind  notice  of  me,  January  23d. 
Not  many  months  ago,  1 knew  no  other  employ- 
ment than  following  the  plough,  nor  could  boast 
anything  higher  than  a distant  acquaintance  with 
a country  clergyman.  Mere  greatness  never 
embarrasses  me  ; 1 have  nothing  to  ask  from  the 
great,  and  I do  not  fear  their  judgment  ; but  ge- 
nius. polished  by  learning,  and  at  its  proper  point 
of  elevation  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  this  of  late 
I frequently  meet  with,  and  tremble  at  its  ap- 
proach. I scorn  the  affectation  of  seeming  mod- 
esty to  cover  self-conceit.  That  I have  some 
merit  I do  not  deny  ; but  I see,  with  frequent 
wringings  of  heart,  that  the  novelty  of  my  char- 
acter, and  the  honest  national  prejudice  of  my 
countrymen,  have  borne  me  to  a height  altogeth- 
er untenable  to  my  abilities. 

For  the  honor  Miss  W.  has  done  me,  please, 
Sir,  return  her,  in  my  name,  my  most  grateful 
thanks.  I have  more  than  once  thought  of  pay- 
ing her  in  kind,  but  have  hitherto  quitted  the 
idea  in  hopeless  despondency.  I had  never  be- 
fore heard  of  her  ; but  the  other  day  I got  her 
poems,  which,  for  several  reasons,  some  belong- 
ing to  the  head,  and  others  the  offspring  of  the 
heart,  gave  me  a great  deal  of  pleasure.  I have 
little  pretensions  to  critic  lore:  there  are  . I think, 
two  characteristic  features  in  her  poetry — the 
unfettered  wild  flight  of  native  genius,  and  the 
querulous,  sombre  tenderness  of  time-settled  sor- 
row. 

I only  know  what  pleases  me,  often  without 
being  able  to  tell  why. 

No.  XVI. 

FROM  DR.  MOORE  . 

Clifford- street,  28th  February,  1787. 
Dear  Sir, — 

Your  letter  of  the  15th  gave  me  a great  deal 
of  pleasure.  It  is  not  surprising  that  you  im- 
prove in  correctness  and  taste,  considering 
where  you  have  been  for  some  time  past.  And 
I dare  swear  there  is  no  danger  of  your  admit- 
ting any  polish  which  might  weaken  the  vigor 
of  your  native  powers. 

I am  glad  to  perceive  that  you  disdain  the 
nauseous  affectation  of  decrying  your  own  mer- 
it as  a poet,  an  affectation  which  is  displayed 
with  most  ostentation  by  those  who  have  the 
greatest,  share  of  self-conceit,  and  which  only 
adds  undeceiving  falsehood  to  disgusting  vanity. 
For  you  to  deny  the  merit  of  your  poems,  would 
be  arraigning  the  fixed  opinion  of  the  public. 

As  the  new  edition  of  my  View  of  Society  is 
not  yet  ready,  I have  sent  you  the  former  edi- 
tion, which  I beg  you  will  accept  as  a small 
mark  of  my  esteem.  It  is  sent  by  sea  to  the 
care  of  Mr.  Creech  ; and  along  with  these  four 
volumes  for  yourself,  I have  also  sent  my  Med- 
ical Sketches,  in  one  volume,  for  my  friend  Mrs. 
Dunlop,  of  Dunlop  : this  you  will  be  so  obliging 
as  to  transmit,  or,  if  you  chance  to  pass  soon  by 
Dunlop,  to  give  to  her. 

1 am  happy  to  hear  that  your  subscription  is  so 
ample,  and  shall  rejoice  at  every  piece  of  good 
fortune  that  befalls  you,  for  you  are  a great  fa- 
vorite in  my  family  ; and  this  is  perhaps  a high- 
er compliment  than,  perhaps,  yon  are  aware  of. 
It  includes  almost  all  the  professions,  and,  of 
course,  is  a proof  that  your  writings  are  adapted 


to  various  tastes  and  situations.  My  youngest 
son,  who  is  at  Winchester  School,  writes  to  me 
that  he  is  translating  some  stanzas  of  your  Hal 
low  E'en  into  Latin  verse  for  the  benefit  of  his 
comrades.  This  union  of  taste  partly  proceeds, 
no  doubt,  from  the  cement  of  Scottish  partiality, 
with  which  they  are  all  somewhat  tinctured. 
Even  your  translator,  who  left  Scotland  too  ear- 
ly in  life  for  recollection,  is  not  without  it. 

* # # # 

I remain,  with  great  sincerity, 

Your  obedient  servant. 

J.  MOORE. 


No.  XVII. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  G-LENCAIRN. 

Edinburgh,  1787. 

My  Lord, — 

I wanted  to  purchase  a profile  of  your  Lord- 
ship,  which  1 was  told  was  to  be  got  in  town : 
but  1 am  sorry  to  see  that  a blundering  painter 
has  spoiled  a '*  human  face  divine.”  The  in- 
closed stanzas  I intended  to  have  written  bo- 
low  a picture  or  profile  of  your  Lordship,  could 
I have  been  so  happy  as  to  procure  one  with  any- 
thing of  a likeness. 

As  1 will  soon  return  to  my  shades,  I wanted 
to  have  something  like  a ma:erial  object  for  my 
gratitude  ; I wanted  to  have  it  in  my  power  to 
say  to  a friend,  There  is  my  noble  patron,  my 
generous  benefactor.  Allow  me,  my  Lord,  to 
publish  these  verses.  I conjure  your  Lordship, 
by  the  honest  throe  of  gratitude,  by  the  gener- 
ous wish  of  benevolence,  by  all  the  powers  and 
feelings  which  compose  the  magnanimous  mind, 
do  not  deny  me  this  petition.*  I owe  much  to 
your  Lordship  ; and,  what  has  not  in  some  oth- 
er instances  always  been  the  case  with  me,  the 
weight  of  the  obligation  is  a pleasing  load.  I 
trust  I have  a heart  as  independent  as  your  Lord- 
ship’s, than  which  I can  say  nothing  more  ; and 
I would  not  be  beholden  to  favors  that  would  cru- 
cify my  feelings.  Your  dignified  character  in 
life,  and  manner  of  supporting  that  character, 
are  flattering  to  my  pride;  and  I would  be  jeal- 
ous of  the  purity  of  my  grateful  attachment 
where  I was  under  the  patronage  of  one  of  the 
much-favored  sons  of  fortune. 

Almost  every  poet  has  celebrated  his  patrons, 
particularly  when  they  were  names  dear  to  fame 
and  illustrious  in  their  country;  allow  me,  then, 
my  Lord,  if  you  think  the  verses  have  intrinsic 
merit,  to  tell  the  world  how  much  I have  the 
honor  to  be, 

Your  Lordship's  highly  indebted, 

And  ever  grateful  humble  servant. 


No.  XVIII. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 

My  Lord, — 

The  honor  your  Lordship  has  done  me,  by 
your  notice  and  advice  in  yours  of  the  1st  instant, 
I shall  ever  gratefully  remember  : 

* It  does  not  appear  that  the  Earl  granted  this  re- 
quest, nor  have  the  verses  alluded  to  been  found 
among  the  MSS. — E. 


232 


LETTERS. 


“ Praise  from  thy  lips  'tis  mine  with  joy  to  boast, 
They  best  can  give  it  who  deserve  it  most.” 

Your  Lordship  touches  the  darling  chord  of 
my  heart,  when  you  advise  me  to  lire  my  muse 
at  Scottish  story  and  Scottish  scenes.  [ wish 
for  nothing  more  than  to  make  a leisurely  pil- 
grimage through  my  native  country  : to  sit  and 
muse  on  those  once  hard-contended  fields  where 
Caledonia,  rejoicing,  saw  her  bloody  lion  borne 
through  broken  ranks  to  victory  and  fame  ; and 
catching  the  inspiration,  to  pour  the  deathless 
names  in  song.  But,  my  Lord,  in  the  midst  of 
these  enthusiastic  reveries,  a long-visaged,  dry, 
moral-looking  phantom  strides  across  my  imag- 
ination., and  pronounces  these  emphatic  words  : 
“ I wisdom,  dwell  with  prudence.  Friend,  I 
do  not  come  to  open  the  ill-closed  wounds  of 
your  follies  and  misfortunes,  merely  to  give  you 
pain;  I wish  through  these  wounds  to  imprint 
a lasting  lesson  on  your  heart.  1 will  not  men- 
tion how  many  of  my  salutary  advices  you  have 
despised ; I have  given  you  line  upon  line,  and 
precept  upon  precept;  and  while  I was  chalk- 
ing out  to  you  the  straight  way  to  w'ealth  and 
character,  with  audacious  effrontery,  you  have 
zig-zagged  across  the  path,  contemning  me  to 
my  face  ; you  know  the  consequences.  It  is 
not  yet  three  months  since  home  w'as  too  hot  for 
you,  that  you  were  on  the  wing  for  the  western 
shore  of  the  Atlantic,  not  to  make  a fortune,  but 
to  hide  your  misfortune. 

“ Now  that  your  dear-loved  Scotia  puts  it  in 
your  power  to  return  to  the  situation  of  your  fore- 
fathers. will  you  follow  these  Will-o’- Wisp  mete- 
ors of  fancy  and  whim,  (ill  they  bring  you  once 
more  to  the  brink  of  ruin  ? I grant  that  the  ut- 
most ground  you  can  occupy  is  but  half  a step 
from  the  veriest  poverty;  but  still  it  is  half  a 
step  from  it.  If  ail  that  I can  urge  be  ineffectu- 
al, let  her  who  seldom  calls  to  you  in  vain,  let 
the  call  of  pride,  prevail  with  you.  You  know 
how’  you  feel  at  the  iron  grip  of  ruthless  oppres- 
sion : you  know  how  you  bear  the  galling  sneer 
of  contumelious  greatness.  I hold  you  out  the 
conveniences,  the  comforts  of  life,  independence 
and  character,  on  the  one  hand  ; I tender  you 
servility,  dependence,  and  wretchedness- on  the 
other;  I will  not  insult  your  understanding  by 
bidding  you  make  a choice.1’* 

This,  my  Lord,  is  unanswerable.  I must  re- 
turn to  my  humble  station,  and  woo  my  rustic 
muse  in  my  wonted  w'ay  at  the  plough-tail. 
Still,  my  Lord,  while  the  drops  of  life  warm  my 
heart,  gratitude  to  that  dear  loved  country  in 
which  I boast  my  birth,  and  gratitude  to  those 
her  distinguished  sons,  who  have  honored  me 
so  much  with  their  patronage  and  approbation, 
shall  while  stealing  through  my  humble  shades 
ever  distend  my  bosom,  and  at  times,  as  now, 
draw  forth  the  swelling  tear. 


No.  XIX. 

Ext.  Property  in  favor  of  Mr.  Robert  Bums,  to  erect 
and  keep  up  a Headstone  in  memory  of  Poet  Fer- 
guseon,  1787. 

Session-house  within  the  Kirk  of  Canon- 
irate,  the  twenty-second  day  of  February , 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eight y- 
seve?i  years. 

* Copied  from  the  Bee,  vol  ii.  p.  319,  and  compared 
with  the  Authors  MS. 


SEDERUNT  OF  THE  MANAGERS  OF  THE  KIRK  AND 
KIRK- YARD  FUNDS  OF  CANONGATE, 

Which  day,  the  treasurer  to  the  said  funds 
produced  a letter  from  Mr.  Robert  Burns,  of 
date  the  sixth  current,  which  was  read,  and  ap- 
pointed to  be  engrossed  in  their  sederunt-book, 
and  of  which  letter  the  tenor  follows:  “ To  the 
Honorable  Bailies  of  Canongate,  Edinburgh. 
Gentlemen,  I am  sorry  to  be  told,  that  the  re- 
mains of  Robert  Fergusson,  the  so  justly  cele- 
brated poet,  a man  whose  talents,  for  ages  to 
come,  will  do  honor  to  our  Caledonian  name, 
lie  in  your  church-yard,  among  the  ignoblo 
dead,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 

“Some  memorial  to  direct  the  steps  of  the  lov- 
ers of  Scottish  Song,  when  they  wish  to  shed  a 
tear  over  the  ‘ narrow  house’  of  the  bard  who 
is  no  more,  is  surely  a tribute  due  to  Fergusson’s 
memory  : a tribute  I wish  to  have  the  honor  of 
paying. 

“I  petition  you,  then,  gentlemen,  to  permit 
me  to  lay  a simple  stone  over  his  revered  ashes, 
to  remain  an  unalienable  property  to  his  deatn- 
les  fame.  I have  the  honor  to  be,  Gentlemen, 
your  very  humble  servant,  {sic  subscibitur ,) 

“ Robert  Burns.  11 

Thereafter  the  said  managers,  in  considera- 
tion of  the  laudable  and  disinterested  motion  of 
Mr.  Burns,  and  the  propriety  of  his  request,  did 
and  hereby  do,  unanimously,  grant  pow’er  and 
liberty  to  the  said  Robert  Burns  to  erect  a head- 
stone at  the  grave  of  the  said  Robert  Fergus- 
son, and  to  keep  up  and  preserve  the  same  to 
his  memory  in  all  time  coming.  Extracted  forth 
of  the  records  of  the  managers,  by 

William  Sprot,  Clerk. 


No.  XX. 

T O 

My  Dear  Sir, — 

You  may  think,  and  too  justly,  that  I am 
a selfish,  ungrateful  fellow,  having  received  so 
many  repeated  instances  of  kindness  from  you, 
and  yet  never  putting  pen  to  paper  to  say — 
thank  you  ; but  if  you  knew  what  a devil  of  a 
life  my  conscience  has  led  me  on  that  account, 
your  good  heart  would  think  yourself  too  much 
avenged.  By  the  by,  there  is  nothing  in  the 
whole  frame  of  man  which  seems  to  me  so  un- 
accountable as  that  thing  called  conscience. 
Had  the  troublesome,  yelping  cur  powers  effi- 
cient to  prevent  a mischief,  he  might  be  of  use  ; 
but  at  the  beginning  of  the  business,  his  feeble 
efforts  are  to  the  workings  of  passion  as  the  in- 
fant frosts  of  an  autumnal  morning  to  the  un- 
clouded fervor  of  the  rising  sun  : and  no  sooner 
are  the  tumultuous  doings  of  the  w’icked  deed 
over,  than,  amidst  the  bitter  native  consequen- 
ces of  folly  in  the  very  vortex  of  our  horror,  up 
starts  conscience,  and  harrows  us  with  the  feel- 
ings of  the 

I have  enclosed  you,  by  ivay  of  expiation, 
some  verse  and  prose,  that  if  they  merit  a place 
in  your  truly  entertaining  miscellany,  you  are 
welcome  to.  The  prose  extract  is  literally  aa 
Mr.  Sprot  sent  it  me.  / 

The  Inscription  of  the  stone  is  as  follows: 
HERE  LIES 

ROBERT  FERGUSSON,  POET, 
Born,  September  5ih,  1751— Died,  IGth  October,  1774. 


LETTERS. 


233 


No  sculptur’d  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 

“ No  storied  urn,  nor  animated  bust 

This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia’s  vcay 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o’er  her  Poet’s  dust. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Stone  is  as  follows  : 

“ By  special  grant  of'  the  Managers  to  Rob- 
ert Burns,  who  erected  this  stone,  this  burial 
place  is  to  remain  forever  sacred  to  the  memo- 
ry of  Robert  Fergusson.” 


No.  XXI. 

EXTRACT  OF  A LETTER  FROM . 

8 th  March,  1787. 

I am  truly  happy  to  know  that  you  have 
found  a friend  in  *****  ; his  patronage 
of  you  does  him  great  honor.  He  is  truly  a 
good  man ; by  far  the  best  I ever  knew,  or.  per- 
haps, ever  shall  know,  in  this  world.  But  I 
must  not  speak  all  I think  of  him,  lest  I should 
be  thought  partial. 

So  you  have  obtained  liberty  from  the  magis- 
trates to  erect  a stone  over  Fergusson’s  grave  ? 

I do  not  doubt  it ; such  things  have  been,  as 
Shakspeare  says,  “in  the  olden  time:” 

“The  poet’s  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shown, 
lie  ask’d  for  bread,  and  he  receiv’d  a stone.” 

It  is,  I believe,  upon  poor  Butler’s  tomb  that 
this  is  written.  But  how  many  brothers  of  Par- 
nassus. as  well  as  poor  Butler  and  poor  Fergus- 
son,  have  asked  for  bread,  and  been  served  the 
same  sauce  ! 

The  magistrates  gave  you,  liberty,  did  they? 

0 generous  magistrates  ! * * * * * * * ce|e. 
brated  over  the  three  kingdoms  for  his  public 
spirit,  gives  a poor  poet  liberty  to  raise  a tomb 
to  a poor  poet’s  memory!  most  generous ! * * 
* * once  upon  a time  gave  that  same  poet  the 
mighty  sum  of  eighteen  pence  for  a copy  of  his 
works.  But  then  it  must  be  considered  that  the 
poet  was  at  this  time  absolutely  starving,  and 
besought  his  aid  w ith  all  the  earnestness  of  hun- 
ger; and  over  and  above,  he  received  a * * * * 
worth,  at  least  one  third  of  the  value,  in  ex- 
change, but  which,  I believe,  the  poet  after- 
wards very  ungratefully  expunged. 

Next  week  I hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  in  Edinburgh  ; and  as  my  stay  will 
be  for  eight  or  ten  days,  I wish  you  or  * * * * 
would  take  a snug  well  aired  bed-room  for  me. 
where  I may  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
over  a morning  cup  of  tea.  But.  by  all  accounts, 
it  will  be  a matter  of  some  difficulty  to  see  you 
at  all.  unless  your  company  is  bespoke  a week 
before-hand.  There  is  a great  rumor  here 
concerning  your  great  intimncv  with  the  Dutch- 
ess of  . and  other  ladies  of  distinction. 

1 am  really  told  that  “ cards  to  invite  fly  by 
thousands  each  night and,  if  you  had  one,  I 
suppose  there  would  also  he  “ bribes  to  your  old 
secretary.”  It  seems  you  are  resolved  to  make 
hay  while  the  sun  shines,  and  avoid,  if  possible, 
the  fate  of  poor  Fergusson,  *****  Quoeren- 
da  pecunin  primum  est,  virtus  post,  nummos , is  a 
good  maxim  to  thrive  by  ; you  seemed  to  despise 
it  while  in  this  country  ; but  probably  some  phi- 
losopher in  Edinburgh  has  taught  you  better 
sense. 

Pray,  are  yon  yet  engraving  as  well  as  print- 
ing ? — Are  you  yet  seized. 


“ With  itch  of  picture  in  the  front, 

With  bays  and  wicked  rhyme  upon’tl” 

But  I must  give  up  this  trifling,  and  attend  to 
matters  that  more  concern  myself;  so.  as  the 
Aberdeen  wit  says,  adieu  dryly , we  sal  drink 
plum  we  meet* 


No,  XXII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  March  22,  1787. 

Madam. — 

I read  your  letter  with  watery  eyes.  A lit- 
tle, very  little  while  ago,  I had  scarce  a friend 
but  the.  stubborn  pride  of  my  own  bosom  ; now  I 
am  distinguished,  patronised,  befriended  by  you. 
Your  friendly  advices,  I will  not  give  them  the 
cold  name  of  criticisms,  I receive  with  reve- 
rence. I have  made  some  small  alterations  in 
what  I before  had  primed.  I have  the  advice  of 
some  very  judicious  friends  among  the  literati 
here,  but  with  them  I sometimes  find  it  neces- 
sary to  claim  the  privilege  of  thinking  for  my- 
self. The  noble  Earl  of  Glencairn,  to  whom  I 
owe  more  than  to  any  man,  does  me  the  honor 
of  giving  me  his  strictures;  his  hints,  with  re- 
spect to  impropriety  or  indelicacy,  I follow  im- 
plicitly. 

You  kindly  interested  yourself  in  my  future 
views  and  prospects : there  I can  give  you  no 
light : — it  is  all 

“Dark  as  was  chaos,  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roll'd  together,  or  had  try’d  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound.” 

The  appellation  of  a Scottish  bard  is  by  far 
my  highest  pride ; to  continue  to  deserve  it,  is 
my  most  exalted  ambition.  ScotiFh  scenesand 
Scottish  story  are  the  themes  I could  wish  to 
sing.  I have  no  dearer  aim  than  to  have  it  in 
my  powder,  unplagued  with  the  routine  of  busi- 
ness, for  which,  heaven  knows  ! I am  unfit 
enough,  to  make  leisurely  pilgrimages  through 
Caledonia;  to  sit  on  the  fields  of  herbatiles;  to 
wander  on  the  romantic  banks  of  her  rivers; 
and  to  muse  by  the  stately  towers  or  venerable 
ruins,  once  the  honored  abodes  of  her  heroes. 

But  these  are  all  Utopian  thoughts:  I havo 
dallied  long  enough  with  life  ; ’ tis  time  to  be  in 
earnest.  I have  a fond,  an  aged  mother  to  care 
for ; and  some  other  bosom  ties  perhaps  equally 
tender. 

Where  the  individual  only  suffers  by  the  con- 
sequences of  his  own  thoughtlessness,  indo- 
lence, or  folly,  he  may  be  excusable;  nay,  shin- 
ing abilities,  and  some  of  the  nobler  virtues  may 
half-sanctify  a heedless  character  : but  where 
God  and  nature  have  intrusted  the  welfare  of 
others  to  his  care,  where  the  trust  is  sacred,  and 
the  ties  are  dear,  that  man  must  be  far  gone  in 
selfishness,  or  strangely  lost  to  reflection,  whom 
these  connections  will  not  rouse  to  exertion. 

* The  above  extract  is  from  a letter  of  one  of  ihe 
ablest  of  mir  Poet's  correspondents,  which  contains 
some  interesting  anecdotes  of  Fergusson.  that  w-e 
should  have  been  happy  to  have  inserted,  if  they 
could  have  been  authenticated.  The  writer  is  mis- 
taken in  supposing  the  magistrates  of  Edinburgh 
had  any  share  in  the  transaction  respecting  the 
monument  erected  for  Fergusson  hv  our  bard;  this, 
it  is  evident  passed  between  Burns  and  the  K rk- 
Session  of  the  Oanongate.  Neither  at  Edinburgh 
nor  anywhere  e'se.  do  magistrates  usually  trouble 
th  unselves  to  inquire  how  the  house  of  a poor  poet 
is  furnished,  or  how  his  grave  is  adorned. — E. 


234 


LETTERS. 


I guess  that  I shall  clear  between  two  and 
three  hundred  pounds  by  my  authorship:  with 
that  sum  I intend,  so  far  as  I may  be  said  to 
have  any  intention,  to  return  to  my  old  acquaint- 
ance, the  plough;  and  if  I can  meet  with  a lease 
by  which  I can  live,  to  commence  farmer.  I 
do  not  intend  to  give  up  poetry  : being  bred  to 
labor  secures  me  independence  ; and  the  muses 
are  my  chief,  sometimes  have  been  my  only 
employment.  If  my  practice  second  my  reso- 
lution, I shall  have  principally  at  heart  the  se- 
rious business  of  life;  but,  while  following  my 
plough,  or  building  up  my  shocks,  I shall  cast 
a leisure  glance ’‘to  that  dear,  that  only  feature 
of  my  character,  which  gave  me  the  notice  of 
my  country,  and  the  patronage  of  a Wallace. 

Thus,  honored  Madam,  I have  given  you 
the  bard,  his  situation,  and  his  views,  native  as 
they  are  in  his  own  bosom. 

^ ^ ^ 


No.  XXIII. 

TO  THE  S A ME. 

Edinburgh,  15 th  April,  1787. 

Madam, — 

There  is  an  affectation  of  gratitude  which  I 
dislike.  The  periods  of  Johnson  and  the  paus- 
es of  Sterne,  may  hide  a selfish  heart.  For  my 
part,  Madam,  I trust  I have  too  much  pride  for 
servility,  and  too  little  prudence  for  selfishness. 
I have  this  moment  broken  open  your  letter;  but 
“ Rude  am  I in  speech, 

And  therefore  little  can  I grace  my  cause 
In  speaking  for  myself” — 
so  I shall  not  trouble  you  with  any  fine  speech- 
es and  hunted  figures.  1 shall  just  lay  my  hand 
on  my  heart,  and  say,  I hope  t shall  ever  have 
the  truest,  the  warmest  sense  of  your  goodness. 

I come  abroad  in  print  for  certain  on  Wednes- 
day. Your  orders  I shall  punctually  attend  to; 
only,  by  the  way,  I must  tell  you  that  I was 
paid  before  for  Dr.  Moore’s  and  Miss  W.’s 
copies,  through  the  medium  of  Commissioner 
Cochrane  in  this  place ; but  that  we  can  settle 
when  I have  the  honor  of  waiting  on  you. 

Dr.  Smith4'  was  just  gone  to  London  the 
morning  before  I received  your  letter  to  him. 


No.  XXIV. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Edinburgh,  23 d April,  1787. 

I received  the  books,  and  sent  the  one  you 
mentioned  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  I am  ill-skilled  in 
beating  the  coverts  of  imagination  for  metaphors 
of  gratitude.  I thank  you,  Sir.  for  the  honor 
you  have  done  me;  and  to  my  latest  hour  will 
warmly  remember  it.  To  be  highly  pleased 
with  your  book,  is  what  I have  in  common  with 
the  world;  but  to  regard  these  volumes  as  a 
mark  of  the  author’s  friendly  esteem,  is  a still 
more  supreme  gratification. 

I leave  Edinburgh  in  the  course  of  ten  days 
or  a fortnight  ; and,  after  a few  pilgrimages 
over  some  of  the  classic  ground  of  Caledonia, 
Cowden  Knowes,  Banks  of  Yarrow,  Tweed , 
4-r..  I shall  return  to  my  rural  shades,  in  all 
likelihood  never  more  to  quit  them.  I have 
♦Adam  Smith. 


formed  many  intimacies  and  friendships  here, 
but  I am  afraid  they  are  all  of  too  tender  a con- 
struction to  bear  carriage  a hundred  and  fifty 
miles.  To  the  rich,  the  great,  the  fashionable, 
the  polite,  I have  no  equivalent  to  offer  ; and  I 
am  afraid  my  meteor  appearance  will  by  no 
means  entitle  me  to  a settled  correspondence 
with  any  of  you,  who  are  the  permanent  lights 
of  genius  and  literature. 

My  most  respectful  compliments  to  Miss  W. 
If  once  this  tangent  flight  of  mine  were  over, 
and  I were  returned  to  my  wonted  leisurely  mo- 
tion in  my  old  circle,  I may  probably  endeavor 
to  return  her  poetic  compliment  in  kind. 


No.  XXV. 

EXTRACT  OF  A LETTER  TO 
MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  30 th  April,  1787. 

Your  criticisms,  Madam,  I understand 

very  well,  and  could  have  wished  to  have  pleas- 
ed you  better.  You  are  right  in  your  guess  that 
I am  not  very  amenable  to  counsel.  Poets, 
much  my  superiors,  have  so  flattered  those  who 
possessed  the  adventi  ious  qualities  of  wealth 
and  power,  that  I am  determined  to  flatter  no 
created  being  either  in  prose  or  verse. 

I set  as  little  by  princes,  lords,  clergy,  critics, 
&c.,  as  all  these  respective  gentry  do  by  my 
hardship.  I know  what  I may  expect  from  the 
world  by  and  by — illiberal  abuse,  and  perhaps 
contemptuous  neglect. 

I am  happy,  Madam,  that  some  of  my  own 
favorite  pieces  are  distinguished  by  your  par- 
ticular approbation.  For  my  Dream,  which 
has  unfortunately  incurred  your  loyal  displeas- 
ure, I hope  in  four  weeks,  or  less,  to  have  the 
honor  of  appearing  at  Dunlop,  in  its  defence, 
in  person. 


No.  XXVI. 

TO  THE  REV.  DR.  HUGH  BLAIR. 

Lawn- Market,  Edinburgh,  2d  May,  1787. 
Reverend  and  Much-respected  Sir, — 

I leave  Edinburgh  to-morrow  morning,  but 
could  not  go  without  troubling  you  with  half  a 
line  sincerely  to  thank  you  for  the  kindness, 
patronage,  and  friendship  you  have  shown  me. 
I often  felt  the  embarrassment  of  my  singular 
situation  ; drawn  forth  from  the  veriest  shades 
of  life  to  the  glare  of  remark ; and  honored  by 
the  notice  of  those  illustrious  names  of  my  coun- 
try, whose  works,  while  they  are  applauded  to 
the  end  of  time,  will  ever  instruct  and  mend  the 
heart.  However  the  meteor-like  novelty  of  my 
appearance  in  the  world  might  attract  notice, 
and  honor  me  with  the  acquaintance  of  the 
permanent  lights  of  genius  and  literature,  those 
who  are  truly  benefactors  of  the  immortal  na- 
ture of  man  ; 1 knew  very  well  that  my  utmost 
merit  was  far  unequal  to  the  task  of  preserving 
that  character  when  once  the  novelty  was  over. 
I have  made  up  my  mind,  that  abuse,  or  almost 
even  neglect,  will  not  surprise  me  in  my  quar- 
ters. 

I have  sent  you  a proof  impression  of  Beu- 
go’s  work  for  me,  done  on  Indian  paper,  as  a 


LETTERS. 


235 


trifling  but  sincere  testimony  with  what  heart - 
warm  gratitude  I am,  &c. 


No.  XXVII. 

FROM  DR.  BLAIR. 

Ar gyle- Square,  Edinburgh,  4th  May. 
Dear  Sir. — 

I was  favored  this  forenoon  with  your  very 
obliging  letter,  together  with  an  impression  of 
your  portrait,  for  which  I return  you  my  best 
thanks.  The  success  you  have  met  with  I do 
not  think  was  beyond  your  merits  ; and  it  I have 
had  any  small  hand  in  contributing  to  it,  it  gives 
me  great  pleasure.  I know  no  way  in  which 
literary  persons,  who  are  advanced  in  years, 
can  do  more  service  to  the  world,  than  in  for- 
warding the  efforts  of  rising  genius,  or  bringing 
forth  unknown  merit  from  obscurity.  I was  the 
first  person  who  brought  out  to  the  notice,  of  the 
world,  the  poems  of  Ossian:  first,  by  \\\e  Frag- 
ment* of  Ancient  Poetry  which  I published, 
and  afterwards  by  my  setting  on  foot  the  under- 
taking for  collecting  and  publishing  the  Works 
of  Ossian  ; and  I have  always  considered  this 
as  a meritorious  action  of  my  life. 

Your  situation,  as  you  say.  was  indeed  very 
singular  ; and,  in  being  brought  out  all  at  once 
from  the  shades  of  deepest  privacy,  to  so  great 
a share  of  public  notice  and  observation,  you 
had  to  stand  a severe  trial.  I am  happy  that  you 
have  stood  it  so  well  ; and.  as  far  as  I have 
known  or  heard,  though  in  the  midst  of  many 
temptations,  without  reproach  to  your  charac- 
ter and  behavior. 

You  are  now,  I presume,  to  retire  to  a more 
private  walk  of  life  ; and.  I trust,  will  conduct 
yourself  there,  with  industry,  prudence,  and 
honor.  You  have  laid  the  foundation  for  just 
public  esteem.  In  the  midst  of  those  employ- 
ments, which  your  situation  will  render  proper, 
you  will  not,  I hope,  neglect  to  promote  that 
esteem,  by  cultivating  your  genius,  and  attend- 
ing to  such  productions  of  it  as  may  raise  your 
character  still  higher.  At  the  same  time,  be 
not  in  too  great  a haste  to  come  forward.  Take 
time  and  leisure  to  improve  and  mature  your 
talents  ; for  on  any  second  production  you  give 
the  world,  vour  (ate.  as  a poet,  will  very  much 
depend.  There  is,  no  doubt,  a gloss  of  novelty 
which  time  wears  off.  As  you  very  properly 
hint  yourself,  you  are  not  to  be  surprised,  if,  in 
your  rural  retreat,  you  do  not  find  yourself  sur- 
rounded with  that  glare  of  notice  and  applause 
which  here  shone  upon  you.  No  man  can  be  a 
good  poet,  without  being  somewhat  of  a philos- 
opher. He  must  lay  his  account,  that  any  one, 
who  exposes  himself  to  public  observation,  will 
occasionally  meet  with  the  attacks  of  illiberal 
censure,  which  it  is  always  best  to  overlook  and 
despise.  He  will  be  inclined  sometimes  to  court 
retreat,  and  to  disappear  from  public  view.  He 
will  not  affect  to  shine  alw-avs.  that  he  may  at 
proper  seasons  come  forth  with  more  advantage 
and  energy.  He  will  not  think  himself  neglect- 
ed, if  he  be  not  always  praised.  I have  taken 
the  liberty,  you  see.  of  an  old  rnan,  to  give  ad- 
vice and  make  reflections  which  your  own  good 
sense  will,  I dare  say.  render  unnecessary. 

As  you  mention  your  being  just  about  to  leavo 
town,  you  are  going,  I should  suppose,  to  Dum- 


fries-shire, to  look  at  some  of  Mr.  Miller’s 
farms.  I heartily  wish  the  offers  to  be  made 
you  there  may  answ’er,  as  I am  persuaded  you 
will  not  easily  find  a more  generous  and  better- 
hearted  proprietor  to  live  under,  than  Mr.  Mil- 
ler. When  you  return,  if  you  come  this  way,  I 
will  be  happy  to  see  you.  and  to  know  concern- 
ing your  future  plans  of  life.  You  will  find  me 
by  the  *22d  of  this  month,  not  in  my  house  iu 
Argvle-square,  but  at  a country-house  at  Res- 
talrig.  about  a mile  east  from  Edinburgh,  near 
the  Musselburgh  road.  Wishing  you  all  suc- 
cess and  prosperity,  I am,  with  real  regard  and 
esteem,  dear  Sir, 

Yours  sincerely, 

HUGH  BLAIR. 


No.  XXVIII. 

FROM  DR.  MOORE. 

Clifford- Street,  May  23,  1787. 

Dear  Sir, — 

I had  the  pleasure  of  your  letter  by  Mr. 
Creech,  and  soon  after  he  sent  me  the  new  ed- 
ition of  your  poems.  You  seem  to  think  it  in- 
cumbent on  you  to  send  to  each  subscriber  a 
number  of  copies  proportionate  to  his  subscrip- 
tion-money ; but  you  may  depend  upon  it,  few 
subscribers  expect  more  than  one  copy,  what- 
ever they  subscribed.  I must  inform  you,  how- 
ever, that  I took  twelve  copies  for  those  sub- 
scribers for  whose  money  you  were  so  accurate 
as  to  send  me  a receipt  ; and  Lord  Eglinton 
told  me  he  had  sent  for  six  copies  for  himself, 
as  he  wished  to  give  five  of  them  as  presents. 

Some  of  the  poems  you  have  added  in  this 
last  edition  are  very  beautiful,  particularly  the 
Winter  Night,  the  Address  to  Edinburgh, — 
Green  grow  the  Rashes,  and  the  two  songs  im- 
mediately following;  the  latter  of  which  is  ex- 
quisite. By  the  way.  I imagine  you  have  a 
peculiar  talent  for  such  compositions,  which 
you  ought  to  indulge.*  No  kind  of  poetry 
demands  more  delicacy  or  higher  polishing. 
Horace  is  more  admired  on  account  of  his  Odes 
than  all  his  other  writings.  But  nothing  now 
added  is  equal  to  your  Visio?i  and  Cotter's  Sat- 
urday Night.  In  these  are  united  fine  imagery, 
natural  and  pathetic  description,  with  sublimity 
of  language  and  thought.  It  is  evident  that  you 
already  possess  a great  variety  of  expression 
and  command  of  the  English  language  ; you 
ought,  therefore,  to  deal  more  sparingly  for  the 
future  in  the  provincial  dialect : why  should  you, 
by  using  that,  limit  the  number  of  your  admi- 
rers to  those  who  understand  the  Scottish,  when 
you  can  extend  it  to  all  persons  of  taste  w'ho 
understand  the  English  language  ? In  my  opin- 
ion you  should  plan  some  larger  wrnrk  than  any 
you  have  as  yet  attempted.  I mean,  reflect  up- 
on some  proper  subject,  and  arrange  the  plan  in 
your  mind,  without  beginning  to  execute  any 
part  of  it  till  you  have  studied  most  of  ihe  best 
English  poets,  and  read  a little  more  of  history. 
The  Greek  and  Roman  stories  you  can  read  in 
some  abridgment,  and  soon  become  master  of 
the  most  brilliant  facts,  w'hich  must  highly  de- 
light a poetical  mind.  You  should  also,  and 
very  soon  may , become  master  of  the  heathen 
mythology,  to  which  there  are  everlasting  allu- 
*The  poems  subsequently  composed  will  bear  tes- 
timony to  the  accuracy  of  Dr.  Moore’s  judgment. — E. 


236 


LETTERS. 


sions  in  all  the  poets,  and  which  in  itself  is 
charmingly  fanciful.  What  will  require  to  be 
studied  with  more  attention,  is  modern  history; 
that  is,  the  history  of  France  and  Great  Bri- 
tain, from  the  beginning  of  Henry  the  Seventh’s 
reign.  I know  very  well  you  have  a mind  ca- 
pable of  attaining  knowledge  by  a shorter  pro- 
cess than  is  commonly  used,  and  I am  certain 
you  are  capable  of  making  a better  use  of  it, 
when  attained;  lhan  is  generally  done. 

I beg  you  will  not  give  yourself  the  trouble 
of  writing  to  me  when  it  is  inconvenient , and 
make  no  apology  when  you  do  write,  for  hav- 
ing postponed  it  ; be  assured  of  this,  however, 
that  I shall  always  be  happy  to  hear  from  you. 

I think  my  friend,  Mr.  told  me  that  you 

had  some  poems  in  manuscript  by  you,  of  a 
satirical  and  humorous  nature  (in  which,  by  the 
way,  I think  you  very  strong.)  which  your  pru- 
dent friends  prevailed  on  you  to  omit  ; particu- 
larly one  called  Somebody's  Confession  ; if  you 
will  intrust  me  with  a sight  of  any  of  these,  I 
will  pawn  my  word  to  give  no  copies,  and  will 
be  obliged  to  you  for  a perusal  of  them. 

I understand  you  intend  to  take  a farm,  and 
make  the  useful  and  respectable  business  of 
husbandry  your  chief  occupation  ; this,  I hope, 
will  not  prevent  your  making  occasional  address- 
es to  the  nine  ladies  who  have  shown  you  such 
favor,  one  of  whom  visited  you  in  the  auldclay 
biggin.  Virgil,  before  you,  proved  to  the  world, 
that  there  is  nothing  in  the  business  of  hus- 
bandry inimical  to  poetry  ; and  I sincerely  hope 
that  you  may  afford  an  example  of  a good  poet 
being  a successful  farmer.  I fear  it  will  not  be 
in  my  power  to  visit  Scotland  this  season  ; when 
I do,  I’ll  endeavor  to  find  you  out,  for  I hearti- 
ly wish  to  see  and  converse  with  you.  If  ever 
your  occasions  call  you  to  this  place,  I make  no 
doubt  of  your  paying  me  a visit,  and  you  may 
depend  on  a very  cordial  welcome  from  this 
family.  I am,  dear  Sir, 

Your  friend  and  obedient  servant. 

J.  MOORE. 


No.  XXIX. 

TO  MR.  WALKER, 

BLAIR  OF  ATHOLE. 

Inverness , 5th  September,  1787. 
My  Dear  Sir, — 

I have  just  time  to  write  the  foregoing,* 
and  to  tell  you  that  it  was  (at  least  most  part,  of 
it,)  the  effusion  of  a half-hour  I spent  at  Bruar. 
I do  not  mean  it  was  extempore,  for  I have  en- 
deavored to  brush  it  up  as  well  as  Mr.  N ’s 

chat  and  the  jogging  of  the  chaise,  would  allow. 
It  eases  my  heart  a good  deal,  as  rhyme  is  the 
coin  with  which  a poet  pays  his  debts  of  honor 
or  gratitude.  What  1 owe  to  the  noble  family 
of  Athole,  of  the  first  kind,  I shall  ever  proud- 
ly boast ; wdiat  I owe  of  the  last,  so  help  me 
God  in  my  hour  of  need  ! I shall  never  forget. 

The  “ little  angel  band  !”  I declare  T pray- 
ed for  them  very  sincerely  to-day  at  the  Fall  of 
Fyers.  I shall  never  forget  the  fine  family- 
piece  T saw  at  Blair ; the  amiable,  the  truly  no- 
ble Dutchess,  with  her  smiling  little  seraph  in 
her  lap,  at  the  head  of  the  table  ; the  lovely 
“ olive  plants,”  as  the  Hebrew  bard  finely  says, 
round  the  happy  mother;  the  beautiful  Mrs. 

* The  humble  petition  of  Bruar- Water  to  the  Duke 
of  Athole.  See  Poems,  p.  53 


G ; the  lovely,  sweet. Miss  C.,  &c.  I wish 

I had  the  powers  of  Guido  to  do  them  justice. 
My  Lord  Duke’s  kind  hospitality — markedly 
kind  indeed  ! Mr.  G.  of  F — ’s  charms  of  con- 
versation— Sir  W.  M ’s  friendship.  In  short, 

the  recollection  of  all  that  polite,  agreeable  com- 
pany, raises  an  honest  glow  in  my  bosom. 


No.  XXX. 

TO  MR'.  GILBERT  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  17 th  Sept.  1787. 
My  Dear  Brother, — 

I arrived  here  safe  yesterday  evening,  after 
a tour  of  twentv-two  days,  and  traveling  near 
six  hundred  miles,  windings  included.  My  far- 
thest stretch  was  about  ten  miles  beyond  In- 
verness. I went  through  the  heart  of  the  High- 
lands, by  Crieff,  Taymouth,  the  famous  seat  of 
the  Lord  Breadalbane,  down  the  'Fay,  among 
cascades  and  Druidical  circles  of  stones,  to 
Dunkeld,  a seat  of  the  Duke  of  Athole  ; thence 
cross  Tav,  and  up  one  of  the  tributary  streams 
to  Blair  of  Athole,  another  of  the  Duke’s  seats, 
where  I had  the  honor  of  spending  nearly  two 
days  with  his  Grace  and  family  ; thence  many 
miles  through  a wild  country,  among  cliffs  gray 
with  eternal  snows,  and  gloomy  savage  glens, 
till  I crossed  Spey  and  went  down  the  stream 
through  Strathspey,  so  famous  in  Scottish  mu- 
sic, Badenoch,  &c.  till  I reached  Grant  Castle, 
where  I spent  half  a day  with  Sir  James  Grant 
and  family  ; and  then  crossed  the  country  for 
Fort  George,  but  called  by  the  way  at  Cawdor, 
the  ancient  seat  of  Macbeth  ; there  I saw  the 
identical  bed  in  which,  tradition  says,  King 
Duncan  was  murdered;  lastly,  from  Fort  George 
to  Inverness. 

I returned  by  the  coast,  through  Nairn,  For- 
res, and  so  on.  to  Aberdeen  ; thence  to  Stone- 
hive,  where  James  Burness,  from  Montrose, 
met  me,  by  appointment.  I spent  two  days 
among  our  relations,  and  found  our  aunts,  Jean 
and  Isabel,  still  alive,  and  hale  old  women. 
John  Caird,  though  born  the  same  year  with 
our  father,  walks  as  vigorously  as  I can  ; they 
have  had  several  letters  from  his  son  in  New- 
York.  William  Brand  is  likewise  a stout  old 
fellow;  but  further  particulars  I delay  till  I see 
you,  which  will  be  in  two  or  three  weeks.  The 
rest  of  my  stages  are  not  worth  rehearsing ; 
warm  as  I was  from  Ossian’s  country,  where  I 
had  seen  his  very  grave,  what  cared  I for  fishing 
towns  or  fertile  carses?  I slept  at  the  famous 
Brodie  of  Brodie’s  one  night,  and  dined  at  Gor- 
don Castle  next  day  with  the  Duke,  Dutchess, 
and  family.  I am  thinking  to  cause  my  old 
mare  to  meet  me,  by  means  of  John  Ronald, 
at  Glasgow  : but  you  shall  hear  farther  from  me 
before  I leave  Edinburgh.  My  duty,  and  many 
| compliments,  from  the  north,  to  my  mother, 
and  my  brotherly  compliments  to  the  rest.  I 
have  been  trying  for  a birth  for  William,  but 
am  not  likely  to  be  successful. — Farewell ! 


No.  XXXI. 

FROM  MR.  R * ***. 

Ochtertyre,  22 d October,  1787. 

Sir, — 

’T  was  only  yesterday  I got  Colonel  Edmond- 


LETTERS. 


etoune’s  answer,  that  neither  the  words  of  Down 
the  Burn  Davie , nor  Duintie  Davie,  (I  lorgot 
which  you  mentioned,)  were  written  by  Colo- 
nel G.  Crawford.  Next  time  I meet  him  I will 
enquire  about  his  cousin’s  poetical  talents. 

Enclosed  are  the  inscriptions  you  requested, 
and  a letter  to  Mr.  Young,  whose  company  and 
musical  talents  will,  I am  persuaded,  be  a feast 
to  you.*  Nobody  can  give  you  better  hints, 
as  to  your  present  plan,  than  he.  Receive  also 
Omeron  Cameron,  which  seemed  to  make  a 
deep  impression  on  your  imagination,  that  I am 
not  without  hopes  it  will  beget  something  to  de- 
light the  public  in  due  lime  : and,  no  doubt,  the 
circumstances  of  this  little  tale  might  be  varied  or 
extended,  so  as  to  make  part  of  a pastoral  com- 
edy. Age  or  wounds  might  have  kept  Omeron 
at  home,  whilst  his  countrymen  were  in  the 
field.  His  station  may  be  somewhat  varied, 

* These  Inscriptions,  so  much  admired  by  Burns, 
ere  as  follows  ; 

WRITTEN  IN  1768. 

FOR  THE  SALICITUM*  AT  OCHTERTYRE. 

Salubritatis  valup’atisque  causa, 

Hoc  Saiictum, 

Pnludem  olim  infidam, 

Mihi  meisque  desicco  et  exorno. 

Hie,  procul  negotiis  strepituque, 

Innocuis  deliciis 

Silvulas  intor  nascenies  reptandi, 
Apiumque  labores  suspiciendi, 

Fruoi. 

Ilic,  si  faxit  Ueus  opt.  max. 

Prope  hunefontem  peilucidum, 

Cum  quoriam  juventutis  arnico  superstite, 
Ssepe  conquiescam,  senex, 

Conlentus  modicis,  meoque  lietus  ! 

Sin  aliter — 

jEvique  paululum  supersit, 

Vos  siivuis.  et  amici, 

Creteraque  amcena, 

Valete,  diuque  lsetamini ! 

ENGLISHED. 

To  improve  both  air  and  soil. 

I drain  and  decorate  this  plantation  of  willows, 
Which  was  lately  an  unprofitable  morass. 

Here,  far  from  noise  and  strife, 

I love  to  wander, 

Now  fondly  marking  the  progress  of  my  tree9, 

Now  studying  the  bee,  its  arts  and  manners. 

Here,  ifit  pleases  Almighty  God. 

May  I often  rest  in  the  evening  of  life, 

Near  that  transparent  fountain, 

With  some  surviving  friend  of  my  youth  ; 
Contented  with  a competency, 

And  happy  with  my  lot. 

If  vain  these  humble  wishes, 

And  life  draws  near  a close, 

Ye  trees  and  friends, 

And  whatever  el=e  is  dear, 

Farewell!  and  long  may  you  flo’^risb. 


ABOVE  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

WRITTEN  IN  1775. 

Mihi  meisque  utinam  conting 
Prope  Taichi  marginem, 

Avito  in  Agelio, 

Bene  vivere  fausteque  mori ! 

ENGLISHED. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Teith, 

In  the  small  but  sweet  inheritance 
Of  my  fathers, 

May  I and  mine  live  in  peace, 

And  die  in  joyful  hope  ! 

These  inscriptions,  and  the  translations,  are  in  the 
hand-writing  of  Mr.  Ramsay. 

* Salicium  Grove  of  Willow:,  Willow-ground. 


237 

without  losing  his  simplicity  and  kindness.  * * 
* A group  of  characters,  male  and  female,  con- 
nected with  the  plot,  might  be  formed  from  his 
family  or  some  neighboring  family  of  rank.  It 
is  not  indispensable  that  the  guest  should  be  a 
man  of  high  station  ; nor  is  the  political  quarrel 
in  which  lie  is  engaged,  of  much  importance, 
unless  to  call  forth  the  exercise  of  generosity  and 
faithfulness,  grafted  on  patriarchal  hospitality. 
To  introduce  state-affairs,  would  raise  the  style 
above  comedy  ; though  a small  spice  of  them 
would  season  the  converse  of  swains.  Upon 
this  head  I cannot  say  more  than  to  recommend 
the  study  of  the  character  of  Eumaeus  in  the 
Odyssey,  which,  in  Mr.  Pope’s  translation,  is 
an  exquisite  and  invaluable  drawing  from  nature, 
that  would  suit  some  of  our  country  Elders  of 
the  present  day. 

There  must  be  love  in  the  plot,  and  a happy 
discovery;  and  peace  and' pardon  maybe  the 
reward  of  hospitality,  and  honest  attachment  to 
misguided  principles.  When  you  once  thought 
of  a plot,  and  brought  the  story  into  form,  Doc- 
tor Blacklock,  or  Mr.  II.  Mackenzie,  may  be 
useful  in  dividing  it  into  acts  and  scenes ; for 
in  these  matters  one  must  pay  some  attention 
to  certain  rules  of  the  drama.  These  you  could 
afterwards  fill  up  at  your  leisure.  But,  whilst  I 
presume  to  give  a few  well-meant  hints,  let  me 
advise  you  to  study  the  spirit  of  my  namesake’s 
dialogue,*  which  is  natural  without  being  low; 
and,  under  the  trammels  of  verse,  is  such  as 
country-people,  in  these  situations,  speak  every 
day.  You  have  only  to  bring  down  your  strain 
a very  little.  A great  plan,  such  as  this,  would 
concentre  all  your  ideas,  which  facilitates  the 
execution,  and  makes  it  a part  of  one’s  pleas- 
ure. 

I approve  of  your  plan  of  retiring  from  din 
and  dissipation  to  a farm  of  very  moderate  size, 
sufficient  to  find  exercise  for  mind  and  body,  but 
not  so  great  as  to  absorb  better  things.  And  if 
some  intellectual  pursuit  be  well  chosen  and 
steadily  pursued,  it  will  be  more  lucrative  than 
most  farms,  in  this  age  of  rapid  improvement. 

Upon  this  subject,  as  your  well-wisher  and 
admirer,  permit  me  to  go  a step  further.  Let 
those  bright  talents  which  the  Almighty  has  be- 
stowed on  you,  be  henceforth  employed  to  the 
noble  cause  of  truth  and  virtue.  An  imagina- 
tion so  varied  and  forcible  as  yours,  may  do 
this  in  many  different  modes : nor  is  it  necessa- 
ry to  be  always  serious,  which  you  have  to  good 
purpose  ; good  morals  may  be  recommended  in. 
a comedy;  or  even  in  a song.  Great  allowances 
are  due  to  the  heat  and  inexperience  of  youth  ; 
and  few  poets  can  boast,  like  Thomson,  of  nev- 
er having  written  a line,  which,  dying,  they 
would  wish  to  blot.  In  particular  I wisli  you  to 
keep  clear  of  the  thorny  walks  of  satire,  which 
makes  a man  a hundred  enemies  for  one  friend* 
and  is  doubly  dangerous  when  one  is  supposed 
to  extend  the  slips  and  weaknesses  of  individu- 
als to  their  sect  or  party.  About  modes  of 
faith,  serious  and  excellent  men  have  always 
differed  ; and  there  are  certain  curious  questions, 
which  may  afford  scope  to  men  of  metaphysical 
heads,  but  seldom  mend  the  heart  or  temper. 
Whilst  these  points  are  beyond  human  ken,  it 
is  sufficient  that  all  our  sects  concur  in  their 
view  of  morals.  You  will  forgive  me  for  these 
hints. 

* Allan  Ramsay,  in  the  Gentle  Shepherd.— E. 


238 


LETTERS 


Well ! what  think  you  of  good  lady  Clack- 
mannan ?*  It  is  a pity  she  is  so  deaf,  and  speaks 
so  indistinctly.  Her  house  is  a specimen  of  the 
mansions  of  our  gentry  of  the  last  age,  when 
hospitality  and  elevation  of  mind  were  conspic- 
uous amidst  plain  fare  and  plain  furniture.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  at  times,  if  it  were 
no  more  than  to  show  that  you  take  the  effus- 
ions of  an  obscure  man  like  me  in  good  part.  I 
beg  my  best  respects  to  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Black- 
lock.  And  am,  Sir, 

Your  most  obedieir,  humble  servant, 

J.  RAMSAY. 


TALE  OF  OMERON  CAMERON. 

In  one  of  the  wars  betwixt  the  crown  of  Scotland 
and  the  Lords  of  the  Isles,  Alexander  Stewart,  Earl 
of  Mar  (a  distinguished  character  in  the  fifteenth 
century,)  and  Donald  Stewart,  Earl  of  Caithness,  had 
the  command  of  the  royal  army.  They  marched  in- 
to Lochaber,  with  a view  of  attacking  a body  of  the 
M ’Donalds,  commanded  by  Donald  Balloch,  and  post- 
ed upon  an  arm  of  the  sea  which  intersects  that  coun- 
try. Having  timely  intelligence  of  their  approach, 
the  insurgents  got  off  precipitately  to  the  opposite 
shore  in  tfieir  curraghs , or  boats  covered  with  skins. 
The  king’s  troops  encamped  in  full  security  ; but  the 
M’Donalds,  returning  about  midnight,  surprised  them, 
killed  the  Earl  of  Caithness,  and  destroyed  or  dispers- 
ed the  whole  army. 

The  Earl  of  Mar  escaped  in  the  dark,  without  any 
attendants,  and  made  for  the  more  hilly  part  of  the 
country.  In  the  course  of  his  flight  he  came  to  the 
bouse  of  a poor  man,  whose  name  was  Omeron  Cam- 
eron. The  landlord  welcomed  his  guest  with  the  ut- 
most kindness;  but,  as  there  was  no  meat  in  the 
house,  he  told  his  wife  he  would  directly  kill  Maol 
jidhar, t to  feed  the  stranger.  “ Kill  our  only  cow!” 
said  she,  “ our  own  and  our  little  children’s  principal 
support!”  More  attentive,  however,  to  the  present 
call  for  hospitality  than  to  the  remonstrances  of  his 
wife,  or  the  future  exigences  of  his  family,  he  killed 
the  cow.  The  best  and  tenderest  parts  were  imme- 
diately roasted  before  the  fire,  and  plenty  of  innirich, 
or  Highland  soup,  prepared  to  conclude  their  meal. 
The  whole  family,  and  their  guest,  ate  heartily,  and 
the  evening  was  spent,  as  usual,  in  telling  tales  and 
singing  songs  beside  a cheerful  fire.  Bed  time  came  ; 
Omeron  brushed  the  hearth,  spread  the  cow-hide  up- 
on it.  and  desired  the  stranger  to  lie  down.  The  earl 
wrapped  his  plaid  about  him  and  slept  soundly  on  the 
hide,  whilst  the  family  betook  themselves  to  rest  in 
a corner  of  the  same  room. 

Next  morning  they  had  a plentiful  breakfast,  and  at 
his  departure  his  guest  asked  Cameron,  if  he  knew 
whom  he  had  entertained  1 “ You  may  probably,” 
answered  he,  “be  one  of  the  king’s  officers  ; but  who- 
ever you  are,  you  came  here  in  distress,  and  here  it 
was  my  duty  to  protect  you.  To  what  my  cottage  af- 
forded you  was  most  welcome.”  “ Your  guest  then,” 
replied  the  other,  “ is  the  Earl  of  Mar  ; and  if  here- 
after you  fall  into  any  misfortune,  fail  not  to  come  to 
the  castle  of  Kildrummie.”  “My  blessing  be  with 
you  ! noble  stranger,”  said  Omeron  ; “ if  I am  ever 
in  distress,  you  shall  soon  see  ine.” 

The  royal  army  was  soon  after  re  assembled,  and 
the  insurgents  finding  themselves  unable  to  make 
head  against  it,  dispersed.  The  M’Donalds,  howev- 
er, got  notice  that  Omeron  had  been  the  Earl’s  host, 
and  forced  him  to  fly  the  country.  He  came  with  his 
wife  and  children  to  the  gate  of  Kildrummie  castle, 
and  required  admittance  with  a confidence  which 
hardly  corresponded  with  his  habit  and  appearance. 
The  porter  told  him  rudely,  his  lordship  was  at  din- 
ner, and  must  not  be  disturbed.  He  became  noisy 
and  importunate  : at  last  his  name  was  announced. 
Upon  hearing  that  it  was  Omeron  Cameron,  the  Earl 
started  from  his  seat,  and  is  said  to  have  exclaimed 
in  a kind  of  poetical  stanza,  “ I was  a night  in  his 
house,  and  fared  most  plentifully  ; hut  naked  of 

*Mrs.  Bruce  of  Clackmannan. — E. 

I Maol  Odhar,  i.  e.  the  brown  hummil  cow. 


No.  XXXII. 

FROM  MR.  J.  RAMSAY  TO  THE  REV. 

W.  YOUNG,  AT  ERSKINE. 

Ochtertyre,  22 d October , 1787. 

Dear  Sir, — 

Allow  me  to  introduce  Mr.  Burns,  whoso 
poems,  I dare  say,  have  given  you  much  pleas- 
ure. Upon  a personal  acquaintance,  I doubt 
l not,  you  will  relish  the  man  as  much  as  his 
works,  in  which  there  is  a rich  vein  of  intellect- 
ual ore.  He  .has  heard  some  of  our  Highland 
Luinags  or  songs  played,  which  delighted  him 
so  much  that  he  has  made  words  to  one  or  two 
of  them,  which  will  render  these  more  popular. 
As  he  has  thought  of  being  in  your  quarter,  I 
am  persuaded  you  will  not  think  it  labor  lost  to 
indulge  the  poet  of  nature  with  a sample  of 
those  sweet,  artless  melodies,  which  only  want 
to  be  married  (in  Milton’s  phrase)  to  congenial 
words.  I wish  we  could  conjure  up  the  ghost 
of  Joseph  M’D.  to  infuse  into  our  bard  a por- 
tion of  his  enthusiasm  for  those  neglected  airs, 
which  do  not  suit  the  fastidious  musicians  of  the 
present  hour.  But  if  it  be  true  that  Corelli 
(whom  I looked  on  as  the  Homer  of  music)  is 
out  of  date,  it  is  no  proof  of  their  taste  ; — this, 
however,  is  going  out  of  my  province.  You 
can  show  Mr.  Burns  the  manner  of  singing  the 
same  Luinags ; and,  if  he  can  humor  it  in 
words,  I do  not  despair  of  seeing  one  of  them 
sung  upon  the  stage,  in  the  original  style,  round 
a napkin. 

I am  very  sorry  we  are  likely  to  meet  so  sel- 
dom in  this  neighborhood.  It  is  one  of  the 
greatest  drawbacks  that  attends  obscurity,  that 
one  has  so  few  opportunities  of  cultivating  ac- 
quaintances at  a distance.  I hope,  however, 
some  time  or  other  to  have  the  pleasure  of  beat- 
ing up  your  quarters  at  Erskine,  and  of  hauling 
you  away  to  Paisley,  &c. ; meanwhile  I beg  to 
be  remembered  to  Messrs  Boog  and  Mylne. 

If  Mr.  B.  goes  by , give  him  a billet  on 

our  friend  Mr.  Stuart,  who,  I presume,  does  not 
dread  the  frowns  of  his  diocesan. 

I am,  Dear  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

J.  RAMSAY. 

No.  XXXIII. 

FROM  MR.  RAMSAY  TO 
DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

Ochtertyre , October  27,  1787. 

Dear  Sir, — 

I received  yours  by  Mr.  Burns,  and  give  you 
many  thanks  for  giving  me  an  opportunity  of 
conversing  with  a man  of  his  calibre.  He  will, 
I doubt  not,  let  you  know  what  passed  between 
us  on  the  subject  of  my  hints,  to  which  I have 
made  additions  in  a letter  I sent  him  t’other  day 
to  your  care. 

* * * * 

You  may  tell  Mr.  Burns,  when  you  see  him, 

clothes  was  my  bed.  Omeron  from  Breugach  is  an 
excellent  fellow.”  He  was  introduced  into  the  great 
hall,  and  received  with  the  welcome  he  deserved. 
Upon  hearing  how  he  had  been  treated,  the  Earl  gave 
him  a four  merk  land  near  the  castle  ; and  it  is  said 
there  are  still  a number  of  Camerons  descended  of 
this  Highland  Eumeus. 


LETTERS. 


239 


that  Colonel  Edmondstotine  told  me  t’other  day, 
that  his  cousin,  Colonel  George  Crawford,  was 
no  poet,  but  a great  singer  of  songs  ; but  that 
his  eldest  brother  Robert  (by  a former  marriage) 
had  a great  turn  that  way.  having  written  the 
words  of  The  Bvshaboon  Traquair  and  Tweed- 
tide.  That  the  Mary  to  whom  it  was  address- 
ed was  Mary  Stewart,  of  the  Castlemilk  fami- 
ly, afterwards  wife  of  Mr.  John  Reiches.  The 
Colonel  never  saw  Robert  Crawford,  though  he 
was  at  his  burial  fifty-five  years  ago.  He  was 
a pretty  young  man,  and  had  lived  long  in 
France.  Lady  Ankerville  is  his  niece,  and 
may  know  more  of  his  poetical  vein.  An  epi- 
taph-monger like  me  might  moralize  upon  the 
vanity  of  life,  and  the  vanity  of  those  sweet  ef- 
fusions. But  I have  hardly  room  to  offer  my 
best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Blacklock,  and  am, 
Dear  Doctor, 

Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

J.  RAMSAY. 


No.  XXXIV. 

FROM  MR.  JOHN  MURDOCH. 

London , 28 th  October,  1787. 
My  Dear  Sir, — 

As  my  friend,  Mr.  Brown,  is  going  from  this 
place  to  your  neighborhood,  I embrace  the  op- 
portunity of  telling  you  that  I am  yet  alive, 
tolerably  well,  and  always  in  expectation  of 
being  better.  By  the  much-valued  letters  be- 
fore me,  I see  that  it  was  my  duty  to  have  giv- 
en you  this  intelligence  about  three  years  and 
nine  months  ago : and  have  nothing  to  allege 
as  an  excuse,  but  that  we  poor,  busy,  bustling 
bodies  in  London,  are  so  much  taken  up  with 
the  various  pursuits  in  which  we  are  here  en- 
gaged, that  we  seldom  think  of  any  person, 
creature,  place  or  thing  that  is  absent.  But 
this  is  not  altogether  the  case  with  me  ; for  I 
often  think  of  you.  and  Hornie  and  Russel,  and 
an  unfathomed  depth,  and  Iowan  brunstane,  all 
in  the  same  minute,  although  you  and  they  are 
(as  I suppose)  at  a considerable  distance.  I 
flatter  myself,  however,  with  the  pleasing 
thought,  that  you  and  I shall  meet  some  time 
or  other  either  in  Scotland  or  England.  If  ev- 
er you  come  hither,  you  will  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  seeing  your  poems  relished  by  the  Cal- 
edonians in  London,  full  as  much  as  they  can 
be  by  those  of  Edinburgh.  We  frequently  re- 
peat some  of  your  verses  in  our  Caledonian  so- 
ciety ; and  you  may  believe,  that  I am  not  a lit- 
tle vain  that  I have  had  some  share  in  cultiva- 
ting such  a genius.  I was  not  absolutely  cer- 
tain that  you  were  the  author,  till  a few  days 
ago,  when  I made  a visit  to  Mrs.  Hill,  Dr.  M’- 
Comb’s  eldest  daughter,  who  lives  in  town,  and 
who  told  me  that  she  was  informed  of  it  by  a 
letter  from  her  sister  in  Edinburgh,  with  whom 
you  had  been  in  company  when  in  that  capital. 

Pray  let  me  know’  if  you  have  any  intention 
of  visiting  this  huge,  overgrown  metropolis  ? 
It  would  afford  matter  for  a large  poem.  Here 
you  would  have  an  opportunity  of  indulging 
your  vein  in  the  study  of  mankind,  perhaps  to 
a greater  degree  than  in  any  city  upon  the  face 
of  the  globe ; for  the  inhabitants  of  London,  as 
you  know,  are  a collection  of  all  nations,  kin- 
dreds and  tongues,  who  make  it,  as  it  were,  the 
centre  of  their  commerce. 


* * * * 

Present  my  respectful  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Burns,  to  my  dear  friend  Gilbert,  and  all  the 
rest  of  her  amiable  children.  May  the  Father 
of  the  universe  bless  you  all  with  those  princi 
pies  and  dispositions  that  the  best  of  parents 
took  such  uncomon  pains  to  instill  into  your 
minds  from  your  earliest  infancy  ! May  you 
live  as  he  did  ! if  you  do,  you  can  never  be  un- 
happy. I feel  myself  grown  serious  all  at  once, 
and  affected  in  a manner  I cannot  describe.  I 
shall  only  add,  that  it  is  one  of  the  greatest 
pleasures  I promise  myself  before  I die,  that  of 
seeing  the  family  of  a man  whose  memory  I 
revere  more  than  that  of  any  person  that  ever  I 
was  acquainted  with. 

I am,  my  dear  Friend, 

Yours  sincerely, 

JOHN  MURDOCH. 


No.  XXXV. 

FROM  MR. . 

Sir,— 

If  you  were  not  sensible  of  your  fault  as  well 
as  of  your  loss  in  leaving  this  place  so  sudden- 
ly, I should  condemn  you  to  starve  upon  cauld 
kail  for  ae  towmont  at  least  ! and  as  for  Dick 
Latine,*  your  traveling  companion,  without  ban- 
ning him  wi  a ’ the  curses  contained  in  your 
letter  (which  he’ll  no  value  a bawbee,)  I should 
give  him  nought  but  S tra' bogie  cast ocks  to  chew 
for  sax  ouks,  or  ay  until  he  was  as  sensible  of 
his  error  as  you  seem  to  be  of  yours. 

* * * * 

Your  song  I showed  without  producing  the 
author  ; and  it  was  judged  by  the  Dutchess  to 
be  the  production  of  Dr.  Beattie.  I sent  a co- 
py of  it,  by  her  grace’s  desire,  to  a Mrs.  M’* 
Pherson  in  Badenoch,  who  sings  Morag  and  all 
other  Gaelic  songs  in  great  perfection.  I have 
recorded  it,  likewise,  by  Lady  Charlotte’s  de- 
sire, in  a book  belonging  to  her  ladyship,  whero 
it  is  in  company  with  a great  many  other  poems 
and  verses,  some  of  the  writers  of  which  are 
no  less  eminent  for  their  political  than  for  their 
poetical  abilities.  When  the  Dutchess  was  in- 
formed that  you  were  the  author,  she  wished 
you  had  written  the  verses  in  Scotch. 

Any  letter  directed  to  me  here  will  come  to 
hand  safely,  and,  if  sent  under  the  Duke’s  cov- 
er, it  will  likewise  come  free ; that  is,  as  long 
as  the  Duke  is  in  this  country. 

I am,  Sir,  yours  sincerely. 


No.  XXXVI. 

FROM  THE  REVEREND 
JOHN  SKINNER. 

Linsheart,  14 th  November,  1787. 

Sir, — 

Your  kind  return  without  date,  but  of  post 
mark  October  25th,  came  to  my  hand  only  this 
day;  and,  to  testify  my  punctuality  to  my  po- 
etic engagement,  I sit  down  immediately  to  an- 
swer it  in  kind.  Your  acknowledgment  of  my 
poor  but  just  encomiums  on  your  surprising 
genius,  and  your  opinion  of  my  rhyming  ex- 

• Mr.  Nicol. 


210 


LETTERS. 


cursions.  are  both,  I think,  by  far  too  high. 
The  difference  between  our  two  tracks  of  edu- 
cation and  ways  of  life  is  entirely  in  your  favor, 
and  gives  you  the  preference  every  manner  of 
way.  I know  a classical  education  will  not  cre- 
ate a versifying  taste,  but  it  mightily  improves 
and  assists  it : and  though,  where  both  these 
meet,  there  may  sometimes  be  ground  for  ap- 
probation, yet  where  taste  appears  single  as  it 
were,  and  neither  cramped  nor  supported  by 
acquisition.  1 will  always  sustain  the  justice  of 
its  prior  claim  of  applause.  A small  portion  of 
taste,  this  way,  I have  had  almost  from  child- 
hood, especially  in  the  old  Scottish  dialect;  and 
it  is  as  old  a thing  as  I remember,  my  fondness 
for  Christ-kirk  o'  the  Green,  which  I had  by 
heart,  ere  I was  twelve  years  of  age,  and  which, 
some  years  ago,  1 attempted  to  turn  into  Latin 
verse.  While  I was  young,  I dabbled  a good 
deal  in  these  things  ; but,  on  getting  the  black 
gown,  I gave  it  pretty  much  over,  till  my  daugh- 
ters grew  up,  who,  being  all  good  singers, 
plagued  me  for  words  to  some  of  their  favorite 
tunes,  and  so  extorted  these  effusions,  which 
have  made  a public  appearance  beyond  my  ex- 
pectations, and  contrary  to  my  intentions,  at  the 
same  time  that  I hope  there  is  nothing  to  be 
found  in  them  uncharacteristic,  or  unbecoming 
the  cloth  which  I would  always  wish  to  see  re- 
spected. 

As  to  the  assistance  you  purpose  from  me  in 
the  undertaking  you  are  engaged  in,*  I am  sor- 
ry I cannot  give  it  so  far  as  I could  wish,  and 
you  perhaps  expect.  My  daughters,  who  were 
my  only  intelligencers,  are  all  foris-familiate, 
and  the  old  woman,  their  mother,  has  lost  that 
taste.  There  are  two  from  my  own  pen,  which 
I might  give  you,  if  worth  the  while.  One  to 
the  old  Scotch  tune  of  Dumbarton  s Drums. 

The  other  perhaps  you  have  met  with,  as  your 
noble  friend  the  Dutchess  has,  I am  told,  heard 
of  it.  It  was  squeezed  out  of  me  by  a brother 
parson  in  her  neighborhood,  to  accommodate  a 
new  Highland  reel  for  the  Marquis's  birth-day, 
to  the  stanza  of 

“ Tune  your  fiddles,  tune  them  sweetly,  &c. 

If  this  last  answer  your  pnrpose,  you  may 
have  it  from  a brother  of  mine,  Mr.  James 
Skinner,  writer  in  Edinburgh,  who,  I believe, 
can  give  the  music  too. 

There  is  another  humorous  thing  I have  heard, 
said  to  be  done  by  the  Catholic  priest  Geddes, 
and  which  hit  my  taste  much  ; 

“There  was  a wee  wifeikie,  was  coming  frae  the 
fair, 

Had  gotten  a little  drapikie,  which  bred  her  meikle 
care, 

It  took  upo’  the  wifie's  heart,  and  she  began  to  spew, 
And  co’  the  wee  wifeikie,  I wish  I binna  fou, 

I wish,  8;c.,  S[C. 

T have  heard  of  another  new  composition,  by 
a young  ploughman  of  my  acquaintance,  that  I 
am  vastly  pleased  with,  to  the  tune  of  The  Hu- 
mors of  Glen , which  I fear  wont  do,  as  the  mu- 
sic, I am  told,  is  of  Trish  original.  I have  men- 
tioned these,  such  as  they  are,  to  show  my 
readiness  to  oblige  you,  and  to  contribute  my 
mite,  if  I could,  to  the  patriotic  work  you  have 
in  hand,  and  which  I wish  all  success  to.  You 
have  only  to  notify  your  mind,  and  what  you 
want  of  the  above  shall  be  sent  you. 

* A plan  of  publishing  a complete  collection  of 
Scottish  Songs,  &c. 


Mean  time,  while  you  are  thus  publicly,  1 
may  say,  employed,  do  not  sheath  your  own 
proper  and  piercing  weapon.  From  what  I 
have  seen  of  yours  already,  I am  inclined  to 
hope  for  much  good.  One  lesson  of  virtue  and 
morality  delivered  in  your  amusing  style,  and 
from  such  as  you,  will  operate  more  than  doz- 
ens would  do  from  such  as  me,  who  shall  be 
told  it  is  our  employment,  and  be  never  more 
minded : whereas,  from  a pen  like  yours,  as  be- 
ing one  of  the  many,  what  comes  will  be  ad- 
mired. Admiration  will  produce  regard,  and 
regard  will  leave  an  impression,  especially  when 
example  goes  along. 

Now  binna  saying  I’m  ill  bred, 

Else,  by  my  trot  it.  I’ll  not  be  glad, 

For  cadgers,  ye  have  heard  il  said, 

And  sic  like  fry. 

Maun  ay  be  harland  in  their  trade, 

And  sae  maun  I. 

Wishing  you,  from  my  poet-pen,  all  success, 
and,  in  my  other  character,  all  happiness  and 
heavenly  direction, 

I remain,  with  esteem, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

JOHN  SKINNER. 


No.  XXXVII. 

FROM  MRS.  ROSE. 

Kilravoek  Castle,  30 Lh  Nov.  1787. 

SlK, — 

I hope  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe, 
that  it  was  no  defect  in  gratitude  for  your  punc- 
tual performance  of  your  parting  promise,  that 
has  made  me  so  long  in  acknowledging  it,  but 
merely  the  difficulty  1 had  in  getting  the  High- 
land songs  you  wished  to  have,  accurately  no- 
ted ; they  are  at  last  enclosed : but  how  shall  I 
convey  along  with  them  those  graces  they  ac- 
quired from  the  melodious  voice  of  one  of  the 
fair  spirits  of  the  Hill  of  Kildrummie  ! These 
I must  leave  to  your  imagination  to  supply.  It 
has  powers  sufficient  to  transport  you  to  her 
side,  to  recall  her  accents,  and  to  make  them 
still  vibrate  in  the  ears  of  memory.  To  her  I 
am  indebted  for  getting  the  enclosed  notes. 
They  are  clothed  with  “ thoughts  that  breathe, 
and  words  that  burn.”  These,  however,  being 
in  an  unknown  tongue  to  you,  you  must  again 
have  recourse  to  that  same  fertile  imagination 
of  yours  to  interpret  them,  and  suppose  a lov- 
er’s description  of  the  beauties  of  an  adored 
mistress — Why  did  I say  unknown  ? the  lan- 
guage of  love  is  a universal  one,  that  seems  to 
have  escaped  the  confusion  of  Babel,  and  to  be 
understood  by  all  nations. 

I rejoice  to  find  that  you  were  pleased  with 
so  many  things,  persons  and  places,  in  your 
northern  tour,  because  it  leads  me  to  hope  you 
may  be  induced  to  revisit  them  again.  That 
the  old  castle  of  Kilravoek,  and  its  inhabitants, 
were  amongst  these,  adds  to  my  satisfaction. 
I am  even  vain  enough  to  admit  your  very  flat- 
tering application  of  the  line  of  Addison’s;  at 
any  rate,  allow  me  to  believe,  that  “ friendship 
will  maintain  the  ground  she  has  occupied  irj 
both  our  hearts,”  in  spite  of  absence,  and  that 
when  we  do  meet,  it  will  be  as  acquaintance  of 
a score  years’  standing;  and  on  this  footing 
consider  me  as  interested  in  the  future  course 
of  your  fame,  so  splendidly  commenced.  Any 


LETTERS. 


241 


communication  of  the  progress  of  your  muse 
will  be  received  with  great  gratitude,  and  the 
fire  of  your  genius  will  have  power  to  warm 
even  us  frozen  sisters  of  the  north. 

The  fire-sides  of  Kilravock  and  Kildrummie 
unite  in  cordial  regards  to  you.  When  you  in- 
cline to  figure  either  in  your  idea,  suppose  some 
of  us  reading  your  poems,  and  some  of  us  sing- 
ing your  songs,  and  my  little  Hugh  looking  at 
your  picture,  and  you’ll  seldom  be  wrong.  We 
remember  Mr.  Nicol  with  as  much  good  will  as 
we  can  do  any  body  who  hurried  Mr.  Burns 
from  us. 

Farewell,  Sir:  I can  only  contribute  the  wid- 
ow's mite,  to  the  esteem  and  admiration  excited 
by  your  merits  and  genius;  but  this  I give,  as 
she  did,  with  all  my  heart — being  sincerely 
yours. 

EL.  ROSE. 


No.  XXXVIII. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 
My  Lokd, — 

I know  your  Lordship  will  disapprove  of  my 
ideas  in  a request  I am  going  to  make  to  you,  but 
I have  weighed  my  situation,  my  hopes,  and 
turn  of  mind,  and  am  fully  fixed  to  my  scheme, 
if  I can  possibly  effectuate  it.  I wish  to  get  in- 
to the  Excise  ; I am  told  that  your  Lordship’s 
interest  will  easily  procure  me  the  grant  from 
the  Commissioners ; and  your  Lordship’s  patron- 
age and  goodness,  which  have  already  rescued' 
me  from  obscurity,  wretchedness,  and  exile, 
embolden  me  to  ask  that  interest.  You  have 
likewise  put  it  in  my  power  to  save  the  little  tie 
of  home  that  sheltered  an  aged  mother,  two  broth- 
ers, and  three  sisters,  from  destruction.  There, 
my  Lord,  you  have  bound  me  over  to  the  high- 
est gratitude. 

My  brother's  farm  is  but  a wretched  lease ; 
but  1 think  he  will  probably  weather  out  the  re- 
maining seven  years  of  it ; and,  after  the  assist- 
ance which  I have  given,  and  will  give  him,  to 
keep  the  family  together,  I think,  by  my  guess, 

I shall  have  rather  better  than  two  hundred 
pounds,  and  instead  of  seeking  what  is  almost 
impossible  at  present  to  find,  a farm  that  I can 
live  by,  with  so  small  a stock,  I shall  lodge  this 
6um  in  a banking-house,  a sacred  deposit,  ex- 
cepting only  the  calls  of  uncommon  distress  or 
necessitous  old  age  ; * * * * 

These,  My  Lord,  are  my  views;  I have  re- 
solved from  the  maturest  deliberation  ; and  now 
that  I am  fixed,  I shall  leave  no  stone  unturned  to 
carry  my  resolve  into  execution.  Your  Lord- 
ship’s patronage  i3  certainly  the  strength  of  my 
hopes  ; nor  have  I yet  applied  to  any  body  else. 
Indeed  my  heart  sinks  within  me  at  the  idea 
of  applying  to  any  other  of  the  Great  who  have 
honored  me  with  their  countenance.  I am  ill 
qualified  to  dog  the  heels  of  greatness  with  the 
impertinence  of  solicitation,  and  tremble  near- 
ly as  much  at  the  thought  of  the  cold  promise,  as 
the  cold  denial : but  to  your  Lordship  I have 
not  only  the  honor,  the  comfort,  but  the  pleas- 
ure of  being 

Your  Lordship’s  much  obliged, 

And  deeply  indebted  humble  servant. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


No.  XXXIX. 

TO DALRYMPLE,  Esq. 

OF  GRANGEFIELD. 

Edinburgh,  1787. 

Dear  Stf, — 

I suppose  the  devil  is  so  elated  with  his  suc- 
cess with  you,  that  he  is  determined,  by  a coup 
de  main,  to  complete  his  purposes  on  you  all  at 
once,  in  making  you  a poet.  I broke  open  the 
letter  you  sent  me  : hummed  over  the  rhymes  ; 
and  as  1 saw  they  were  extempore,  said  to  my- 
self, they  were  very  well;  but  when  I saw  at 
the  bottom  a name  I shall  ever  value  with  grate- 
ful respect,  “I  gapit  wide  but  naething  spak.” 
I was  nearly  as  much  struck  as  the  friends  of 
Job,  of  affliction-bearing  memory,  when  they 
sat  down  with  him  seven  days  and  seven  nights, 
and  spake  not  a word. 

# # # # 

I am  naturally  of  a superstitious  cast,  and  as 
soon  as  my  wonder-scared  imagination  regained 
its  consciousness,  and  resumed  its  functions,  I 
cast  about  what  this  mania  of  yours  might  por- 
tend. My  foreboding  ideas  had  the  wide  stretch 
of  possibility  ; and  several  events,  great  in  their 
magnitude,  and  important  in  their  consequences, 
occurred  to  my  fancy.  The  downfall  of  the  con- 
clave, or  the  crushing  of  the  cork  rumps ; a du- 
cal coronet  to  Lord  George  G , and  the 

protestant  interest,  or  St.  Peter’s  key,  to  * * * 
You  want  to  know  how  I come  on.  I am  just 
in  statu  quo,  or,  not  to  insult  a gentleman  with 
my  Latin,  in  “ auld  use  and  wont.”  The  no- 
ble Earl  of  Glencairn  took  me  by  the  hand  to- 
day, and  interested  himself  in  my  concerns, 
with  a goodness  like  that  benevolent  Being 
whose  image  he  so  richly  bears.  He  is  a stron- 
ger proof  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul  than  any 
that  philosophy  ever  produced.  A mind  like  his 
can  never  die.  Let  the  worshipful  squire  H.  L. 
or  the  reverend  Mass  J.  M.  go  into  their  prim- 
itive nothing.  At  best,  they  are  but  ill-digest- 
ed lumps  of  chaos,  only  one  of  them  strongly 
tinged  with  bituminous  particles  and  sulphure- 
ous effluvia.  But  my  noble  patron,  eternal  as 
the  heroic  swell  of  magnanimity,  and  the  gen- 
erous throb  of  benevolence,  shall  look  on  with 
princely  eye  at  “ the  war  of  elements,  the 
wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds.” 


No.  XL. 

TO  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD. 

December,  1787. 

Sir, — 

Mr.  M’Kenzie,  in  Mauchline,  my  very  warm 
and  worthy  friend,  has  informed  me  how  much 
you  are  pleased  to  interest  yourself  in  my  fate 
as  a man,  and  (what  to  me  is  incomparably  dear- 
er) my  fame  as  a poet.  I have,  Sir,  in  one  or 
two  instances,  been  patronised  by  those  of  your 
character  in  life,  when  I was  introduced  to  their 
notice  by  *****  * friends  to  them,  and  hon- 
ored acquaintance  to  me  ; but  you  are  the  first 
gentleman  in  the  country  whose  benevolence 
and  goodness  of  heart  have  interested  him  for 
me,  unsolicited  and  unknown,  I am  not  mas- 
ter enough  of  the  etiquette  of  these  matters  to 
know,  nor  did  I stay  to  inquire,  whether  formal 
duty  bade,  or  cold  propriety  disallowed,  my 


242 


LETTERS. 


thanking  you  in  this  manner,  as  lam  convinced, 
from  the  light  in  which  you  kindly  view  me, 
that  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  this 
letter  is  not  the  manoeuvre  of  the  needy,  sharp- 
ing author,  fastening  on  those  in  upper  life  who 
honor  him  with  a little  notice  of  him  or  his 
works.  Indeed,  the  situation  of  poets  is  gene- 
rally such,  to  a proverb,  as  may,  in  some  meas- 
ure, palliate  that  prostitution  of  art  and  talents 
they  have  at  times  been  guilty  of.  I do  not 
think  prodigality  is,  by  any  means,  a necessary 
concomitant  of  a poetic  turn  ; but  I believe  a 
careless,  indolent  inattention  to  economy,  is  al- 
most inseparable  from  it ; then  there  must  be, 
in  the  heart  of  every  bard  of  Nature’s  making, 
a certain  modest  sensibility,  mixed  with  a kind 
of  pride,  that  will  ever  keep  him  out  of  the  way 
of  those  windfalls  of  fortune,  which  frequently 
light  on  a hardy  impudence  and  foot-licking  ser- 
vility. It  is  not  easy  to  imagine  a more  help- 
less state  than  his,  whose  poetic  fancy  unfits 
him  for  the  world,  and  whose  character  as  a 
scholar  gives  him  some  pretensions  to  the  poli- 
tesse  of  life — yet  is  as  poor  as  I am. 

For  my  part,  I thank  Heaven  my  star  has 
been  kinder  ; learning  never  elevated  my  ideas 
above  the  peasant’s  shade,  and  I have  an  inde- 
pendent fortune  at  the  plough-tail. 

I was  surprised  to  hear  that  any  one  who  pre- 
tended in  the  least  to  the  manners  of  the  gentle- 
man, should  be  so  foolish,  or  worse,  as  to  stoop 
to  traduce  the  morals  of  such  a one  as  I am  ; 
and  so  inhumanly  cruel,  too,  as  to  meddle  with 
that  late  most  unfortunate,  unhappy  part  of  my 
story.  With  a tear  of  gratitude,  I thank  you, 
Sir,  for  the  warmth  with  which  you  interposed 
in  behalf  of  my  conduct.  I am,  I acknowledge, 
too  frequently  the  sport  of  whim,  caprice  and 
passion — but  reverence  to  God,  and  integrity  to 
my  fellow  creatures,  I hope  I shall  ever  pre- 
serve. I have  no  return,  Sir,  to  make  you  for 
your  goodness,  but  one — a return  which,  I am 
persuaded  will  not  be  unacceptable — the  honest, 
warm  wishes  of  a grateful  heart  for  your  hap- 
piness, and  every  one  of  that  lovely  flock  who 
stand  to  you  in  a filial  relation.  If  ever  Cal- 
umny aim  the  poisoned  shaft  at  them,  may  friend- 
ship bo  by  to  ward  the  blow  ! 


No.  XLI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  21st  January,  1788. 

After  six  weeks’  confinement,  I am  beginning 
to  walk  across  the  room.  They  have  been  six 
horrible  weeks  ; anguish  and  low  spirits  made 
me  unfit  to  read,  write  or  think. 

I have  a hundred  times  wished  that  one  could 
resign  life  as  an  officer  resigns  a commission  ; 
for  I would  not  take  in  any  poor,  ignorant 
wretch,  by  selling  out.  Lately  I was  a sixpen- 
ny private,  and,  God  knows,  a miserable  soldier 
enough  : now  I march  to  the  campaign,  a starv- 
ing cadet ; a little  more  conspicuously  wretched. 

I am  ashamed  of  all  this  ; for  though  I do 
want  bravery  for  the  warfare  of  life,  I could 
wish,  like  some  other  soldiers,  to  have  as  much 
fortitude  or  cunning  as  to  dissemble  or  conceal 
my  cowardice. 

As  soon  as  I can  bear  the  journey,  which  will 
be,  I suppose,  about  the  middle  of  next  week, 


I leave  Edinburgh,  and  soon  after  I shall  pay 
my  grateful  duty  at  Dunlop-House. 


No.  XLII. 

EXTRACT  OF  A LETTER  TO 
THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  12 th  February,  1788. 

Some  things  in  your  late  letters  hurt  me  : not 
that  you  say  them,  but  that  you  mistake  me.  Re- 
ligion, my  honored  Madam,  has  only  not  been 
al  l my  life  my  chief  dependence,  but  my  dearest 
enjoyment.  I have  indeed  been  the  luckless 
victim  of  wayward  follies  : but,  alas  ! I have 
ever  been  “more  fool  than  knave.”  A mathe- 
matician without  religion  is  a probable  charac- 
ter ; and  an  irreligious  poet  is  a monster. 

* # # # 


No.  XLIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mossgiel,  7 th  March,  1788. 

Madam, — 

The  last  paragraph  in  yours  of  the  30th  Feb- 
ruary affected  me  most,  so  I shall  begin  my  an- 
swer where  you  ended  your  letter.  That  I am 
often  a sinner  with  any  little  wit  I have,  I do 
confess  : but  I have  taxed  my  recollection  to  no 
purpose  to  find  out  when  it  wras  employed 
against  you.  I hate  an  ungenerous  sarcasm  a 
great  deal  worse  than  I do  the  devil ; at  least, 
as  Milton  describes  him  ; and  though  I may  be 
rascally  enough  to  be  sometimes  guilty  of  it 
myself,  I cannot  endure  it  in  others,  ifou.  my 
honored  friend,  who  cannot  appear  in  any  light 
but  you  are  sure  of  being  respectable — you  can 
afford  to  pass  by  an  occasion  to  display  your 
wit,  because  you  may  depend  for  fame  on  your 
sense  ; or,  if  you  choose  to  be  silent,  you  know 
you  can  rely  on  the  gratitude  of  many  and  the 
esteem  of  all ; but,  God  help  us  who  are  wits 
or  witlings  by  profession,  if  we  stand  not  for 
fame  there,  we  sink  unsupported  ! 

I am  highly  flattered  by  the  news  you  tell  me 
of  Coila.*  I may  say  to  the  fair  painter  who 
does  me  so  much  honor,  as  Dr.  Beattie  says  to 
Ross  the  poet  of  his  muse  Scota,  from  which, 
by  the  by,  I took  the  idea  of  Coila  : (’Tis  a 
poem  of  Beattie’s  in  the  Scots  dialect,  which 
perhaps  you  have  never  seen.) 

“ Ye  shak  your  head,  but  o’  my  fegs, 

Ye’ve  set  auld  Scota  on  her  legs  : 

Lang  had  she  lien  wi’  bufie  and  flegs, 
Bombaz’d  and  dizzie, 

Her  fiddle  wanted  strings  and  pegs, 

Waes  me^poor  hizzie  1” 


No.  XLIV. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  OLEGHORN. 

Mauchline,  31st  March,  1788. 

Yesterday,  my  dear  Sir,  as  I was  riding 
through  a track  of  melancholy,  joyless  muirs, 
between  Galloway  and  Ayrshire,  it  being  Sun- 

* A lady  (daughter  of  Mrs.  Dunlop)  was  making  a 
picture  from  thi  description  of  Coila  in  the  Vision. 


LETTERS. 


day,  I turned  my  thoughts  to  psalms  and  hymns 
and  spiritual  songs  : and  your  favorite  air  Cap- 
lain  Okean,  coming  at  length  into  my  head,  I 
tried  these  words  to  it.  You  will  see  that  the 
first  part  of  the  tune  must  be  repeated.* 

I am  tolerably  pleased  with  these  verses;  but, 
as  I have  only  a sketch  of  the  tune,  I leave  it 
with  you  to  try  if  they  suit  the  measure  of  the 
music. 

I am  so  harrassed  with  care  and  anxiety  about 
this  larming  project  of  mine,  that  my  muse  has 
degenerated  into  the  veriest  prose-wench  that 
ever  picked  cinders  or  followed  a tinker.  When 
I am  fairly  got  into  the  routine  of  business,  I 
shall  trouble  you  with  a longer  epistle  ; perhaps 
with  some  queries  respecting  farming  ; at  pres- 
ent the  world  sits  such  a load  on  my  mind,  that 

it  has  effaced  almost  every  trace  of  the 

in  me. 

My  very  best  compliments  and  good  wishes 
to  Mrs.  C leghorn. 


No.  XLV. 

FROM  MR.  ROBERT  CLEGHORN. 

Saugliton  Mills , 27 th  April,  1788. 
My  Dear  Brother  Farmer, — 

I was  favored  with  your  very  kind  letter  of 
the  31st  ult. , and  consider  myself  greatly  oblig- 
ed to  you  for  your  attention  in  sending  me  the 
eongt  to  my  favorite  air,  Captain  Okean.  The 
words  delight  me  much,  they  fit  the  tune  to  a 
hair.  I wish  you  would  send  me  a verse  or 
two  more  : and  if  you  have  no  objection,  I 
would  have  it  in  the  Jacobite  style.  Sup- 
pose it  should  be  sung  after  the  fatal  field  of 
Cuiloden  by  the  unfortunate  Charles.  Ten- 
ducci  personates  the  lovely  Mary  Stuart  in  the 
song,  Queen  Mary's  Lamentation.  Why  may 
not  I sing  in  the  person  of  her  great-great -great- 
grandson  ?t 

Any  skill  I have  in  country  business  you  may 
truly  command.  Situation,  soil,  customs  of 
countries,  may  vary  from  each  other,  but  Farm- 
er Attention  is  a good  farmer  in  every  place.  1 
beg  to  hear  from  you  soon.  Mrs.  C leghorn 
joins  me  in  best  compliments. 

I am,  in  the  most  comprehensive  sense  of  the 
word,  your  very  sincere  friend, 

ROBERT  CLEGHORN. 


No.  XLVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mauchline,  28 th  April,  1788. 

Madam, — 

Your  powers  of  reprehension  must  be  great 
indeed,  as  I assure  you  they  made  my  heart 
ache  with  penitential  pangs,  even  though  I was 
really  not  guilty.  As  I commence  farmer  at 
Whitsunday,  you  will  easily  guess  I must  be 
pretty  busy  ! but  that  is  not  all.  As  I got  the 

* Here  the  Bard  gives  the  first  stanza  of  the  “Chev- 
alier’s Lament.” 

tThe  Chevalier’s  Lament. 

$Our  Poet  took  this  advice.  The  whole  of  this 
beautiful  song,  as  it  was  afterwards  finished,  is  in- 
serted in  the  Poems,  p.  59. 


243 

offer  of  the  excise-business  without  solicitation  ; 
as  it  costs  me  only  six  months’  attendance  for 
instructions  to  entitle  me  to  a commission, 
which  commission  lies  by  me;  and  at  any  fu- 
ture period,  on  my  simple  petition,  can  be  re- 
sumed : I thought  five-ahd-thirty  pounds  a-year 
was  no  bad  dernier  resort  for  a poor  poet,  if 
fortune,  in  her  jade  tricks,  should  kick  him 
down  from  the  little  eminence  to  which  she  has 
lately  helped  him  up. 

For  this  reason,  1 am  at  present  attending 
these  instructions,  to  have  them  completed  be- 
fore Whitsunday.  Still,  Madam,  I prepared, 
with  the  sincerest  pleasure,  to  meet  you  at  the 
Mount,  and  came  to  my  brother’s  on  Saturday 
night,  to  set  out  on  Sunday  ; but  for  some  nights 
preceding,  I had  slept  in  an  apartment  where 
the  force  of  the  winds  and  rains  was  only  miti- 
gated by  being  sifted  through  numberless  aper- 
tures in  the  windows,  walls,  &c.  In  conse- 
quence, I was  on  Sunday,  Monday,  and  part  of 
Tuesday,  unable  to  stir  out  of  bed,  with  all  the 
miserable  effects  of  a violent  cold. 

You  see,  Madam,  the  truth  of  the  French 
maxim  Le  vrai  n'est  pas  toujours  le  vraisembla - 
ble.  Your  last  was  so  full  of  expostulation,  and 
was  something  so  like  the  language  of  an  of- 
fended friend,  that  I began  to  tremble  for  a cor- 
respondence which  I had  with  grateful  pleasure 
set  down  as  one  of  the  greatest  enjoyments  of 
my  future  life. 

* * * * 

Your  books  have  delighted  me  : Virgil,  Dry- 
den  and  Tasso,  were  all  equally  strangers  to 
me  : but  of  this  more  at  large  in  my  next. 


No.  XLVII. 

FROM  THE  REV  JOHN  SKINNER. 

Linsheart,  2 8th  April,  1788. 

Dear  Sir, — 

I received  your  last  with  the  curious  present 
you  have  favored  me  with,  and  would  have 
made  proper  acknowledgments  before  now,  but 
that  I have  been  necessarily  engaged  in  mat- 
ters of  a different  complexion.  And  now,  that 
I have  got  a little  respite,  I make  use  of  it  to 
thank  you  for  this  valuable  instance  of  your 
good-will,  and  to  assure  you  that,  w'ith  the  sin- 
cere heart  of  a true  Scotsman,  I highly  esteem 
both  the  gift  and  the  giver ; as  a small  testimo- 
ny of  which  I have  herewith  sent  you  for  your 
amusement  (and  in  a form  which  I hope  you 
will  excuse  for  saving  postage)  the  two  songs 
I wrote  about  to  you  already.  Charming  Nan- 
cy is  the  real  production  of  genius  in  a plough- 
man of  twenty  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  its  ap- 
pearing, wfith  no  more  education  than  what  he 
picked  up  at.  an  old  farmer-grand-father’s  fire- 
side, though  now  by  the  strength  of  natural 
parts,  he  is  clerk  to  a thriving  bleach-field  in 
the  neighborhood.  And  I doubt  not  but  you  will 
find  in  it  a simplicity  and  delicacy,  with  some 
turns  of  humor,  that  will  please  one  of  your 
taste  ; at  least  it  pleased  me  w'hen  I first  saw  it, 
if  that  can  be  any  recommendation  to  it.  The 
other  is  entirely  descriptive  of  my  own  senti- 
ments : and  you  may  make  use  of  one  or  both 
as  you  shall  see  good.* 

* See  next  page. 


244 


LETTERS. 


* CHARMING  NANCV'. 

A SONG  BY  A BUCHAN  PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune — “ Humors  of  Glen.” 

Some  sing  of  sweet  Mally,  some  sing  of  fair  Nelly, 
And  some  call  sweet  Susie  the  cause  of  their  pain; 
Some  love  to  be  jolly,  some  love  melancholy, 

And  some  love  to  sing  of  the  Humors  of  Glen. 

But  my  only  fancy  is  my  pretty  Nancy, 

In  venting  my  passion  l’  l strive  to  be  plain ; 

I'll  ask  no  more  treasure.  I’d  seek  no  more  pleasure, 
But  thee,  my  dear  Nancy,  gin  thou  wert  my  ain. 

Iler  beauty  delights  me,  her  kindness  invites  me, 
Her  pleasant  behaviour  is  free  from  all  stain, 
Therefore,  my  sweet  jewel,  O do  not  prove  cruel ; 

Consent,  my  dear  Nancy,  and  come,  be  my  ain. 
Her  carriage  is  comely,  her  language  is  homely, 

Her  dress  is  quite  decent  when  ta’en  in  the  main  ; 
She’s  blooming  in  feature,  she’s  handsome  in  stature, 
My  charming  dear  Nancy,  O wert  thou  mine  ain  ! 

Like  Phoebus  adorning  the  fair  ruddy  morning. 

Her  bright  eyes  are  sparkl  ng.her  brows  are  serene, 
Her  yellow  locks  shining,  in  beauty  combining, 

My  charming  sweet  Nancy,  wilt  thou  be  my  ain  I 
The  whole  of  her  face  is  with  maidenly  graces 
Array’d  like  the  gowans  that  grow  in  yon  glen  ; 
She’s  well  shap’d  and  slender, true-hearted  and  ten- 
der, 

My  charming  sweet  Nancy,  O wert  thou  my  ain  ! 

I’ll  seek  thro’  the  nation  for  some  habitation, 

To  shelter  my  jewel  from  cold  , snow,  and  rain, 
With  songs  to  my  deary.  I’ll  keep  her  ay  cheery, 

My  charming  sweet  Nancy,  gin  thou  wert  my  ain. 
I’ll  work  at  my  calling  to  furnish  thy  dwelling, 

With  ev’ry  thing  needful  thy  life  to  sustain  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  sit  single,  but  by  a clear  ingle, 

I’ll  marrow  thee,  Nancy,  when  thou  ait  my  ain. 

I’ll  make  true  affection  the  constant  direction 
Of  loving  my  Nancy,  while  life  doth  remain  ; 
Tho’  youth  will  be  wasting,  true  love  shall  be  last- 
ing, 

My  charming  sweet  Nancy,  gin  thou  wert  my  ain. 
But  what  if  my  Nancy  should  alter  her  fancy, 

To  favor  another  be  forward  and  fain, 

I will  not  compel  her,  but  plainly  I’ll  tell  her, 
Begone,  thou  foul  Nancy,  thou’se  ne’er  be  my  ain. 

THE  OLD  MAN’S  SONG. 

BY  THE  REVEREND  J.  SKINNER. 

Ttine—1  Dumbarton  Drums.” 

O ! why  should  old  age  so  much  wound  us  ? O, 
There  is  nothing  in’t  all  to  confound  us,  O, 

For  how  happy  now  am  I, 

With  my  old  wife  sitting  by, 

And  our  bairns  and  our  oys  all  around  us,  O. 

We  began  in  the  world  wi’  naething,  O, 

And  we’ve  jogg’d  on  and  toii’d  for  the  ae  thing,  O, 
We  made  use  of  what  we  had, 

And  our  thankful  hearts  were  glad, 

When  we  got  the  bit  meat  and  the  cleathing,  O. 

We  have  liv’d  all  our  life-time  contented,  O, 

Since  the  day  we  became  first  acquainted,  O, 

It’s  true  we’ve  been  but  poor, 

And  we  are  so  to  this  hour, 

Yet  we  never  yet  repined  or  lamented,  O. 

We  ne’er  thought  of  schemes  to  be  wealthy,  O, 
By  ways  we  were  cunning  and  stealthy,  O, 

But  we  always  had  the  bliss, 

And  what  further  could  we  wiss. 

To  be  pleas’d  wi’ ourselves,  and  be  healthy,  O. 

What  tho’  we  canna  boast  of  our  guineas,  O, 

We  have  plenty  of  Jockies  and  Jennies,  O, 

And  these  I’m  certain,  are 
More  desirable  by  far, 

Than  a pocket  full  of  poor  yellow  sleenies,  O. 

We  have  seen  many  wonder  and  ferlie,  O, 

Of  changes  that  almost  are  yearly,  O, 


Among  rich  folks  up  and  down, 

Both  in  country  and  in  town. 

Who  now  live  but  scrimply  and  barely,  O, 

Then  why  should  people  brag  of  prosperity,  O, 

A straitened  life  we  see  is  no  rarity,  O. 

Indeed  we’ve  been  in  want, 

And  our  living  been  but  scant, 

Yet  we  never  were  reduced  to  nei  dy  charity,  O. 

In  this  house  we  first  came  together,  O, 

Where  we’ve  long  been  a Father  and  a Mither,  0| 
And,  tho’  not  of  stone  and  lime, 

It  will  last  us  a’  our  time, 

And,  I hope,  we  shall  never  need  anither,  O. 

And  when  we  leave  this  habitation,  O, 

We’ll  depart  with  a good  commendation,  O, 

We’II  go  hand  in  hand  I wiss, 

To  a better  house  than  this, 

To  make  room  for  the  next  generation,  O. 

Then  why  should  old  age  so  much  wound  us  1 O, 
There’s  nothing  in’t  all  to  confound  us,  O, 

For  how  happy  now  am  I, 

With  my  old  wife  sitting  by, 

And  our  bairns  and  our  oys  all  around  us,  O. 

You  will  oblige  me  by  presenting  my  re- 
spects to  your  host,  Mr.  Cruikshank,  who  has 
given  such  high  approbation  to  my  poor  Latini- 
ty;  you  may  let  him  know,  that  as  I have  like- 
wise been  a dabbler  in  Latin  poetry,  I have  two 
things  that  I would,  if  he  desires  it,  submit,  not 
to  his  judgment,  but  to  his  amusement;  tho 
one,  a translation  of  Christ's  Kirk  o’  the  Green , 
printed  at  Aberdeen  some  years  ago;  the  other, 
Batrachomyomachia  Homeri  latinis  vestita  cum 
additamentis , given  in  lately  to  Chalmers,  to 
print  if  he  pleases.  Mr.  C.  will  know  Seria 
non  semper  delectant,  nonjoca  semper.  Semper 
delectant  seria  mixta  jocis. 

I have  just  room  to  repeat  compliments  and 
good  wishes  from. 

Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

JOHN  SKINNER. 

No.  XLVIII.  ’ 

TO  PROFESSOR  DUGALD  STEWART. 

Mauchline,  3 d May , 1788. 

Sir, — 

I enclose  you  one  or  two  more  of  my  baga- 
telles. If  the  fervent  wishes  of  honest  gratitude 
have  any  influence  with  that  great  unknown  Be- 
ing, who  frames  the  chain  of  causes  and  events, 
prosperity  and  happiness  will  attend  your  visit 
to  the  Continent,  and  return  you  safe  to  your 
native  shore. 

Wherever  I am,  allow  me,  Sir,  to  claim  it  as 
my  privilege  to  acquaint  you  with  my  progress 
in  my  trade  of  rhymes;  as  I am  sure  I could 
say  it  with  truth,  that  next  to  my  little  fame, 
and  the  having  it  in  my  power  to  make  life  more 
comfortable  to  those  whom  nature  has  made  dear 
to  me,  I shall  ever  regard  your  countenance, 
your  patronage,  your  friendly  good  offices,  as 
the  most  valued  consequence  of  my  late  success 
in  life. 


No.  XLIX. 

EXTRACT  OF  A LETTER  TO 
MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mauchline , 4 th  May , 1788. 

Madam, — 

Dryden’s  Virgil  has  delighted  me.  I do  not 


LETTERS. 


245 


know  whether  the  critics  will  agree  with  me, 
but  the  Georgies  are  to  me  by  far  the  best  of 
Virgil.  It  is,  indeed,  a species  of  writing  en- 
tirely new  to  me,  and  has  filled  my  head  with  a 
thousand  fancies  of  emulation:  but,  alas!  when 
I read  the  Georgies  and  then  survey  my  own 
powers,  ’t  is  like  the  idea  of  a Shetland  poney, 
drawn  up  by  the  side  of  a thorough-bred  hunter, 
to  start  for  the  plate.  I own  I am  disappointed 
in  the  JE neid.  Faultless  correctness  may  please, 
and  does  highly  please  the  lettered  critic : but 
to  that  awful  character  I have  not  the  most  dis- 
tant pretensions.  I do  not  know'  whether  I do 
not  hazard  my  pretensions  to  be  a critic  of  any 
kind,  when  I say,  that  I think  Virgil,  in  many 
instances,  a servile  copier  of  Homer.  It  1 had 
the  Odyssey  by  me.  I could  parallel  many  pas- 
sages where  Virgil  has  evidently  copied,  but  by 
no  means  improved  Homer.  Nor  can  I think 
there  is  any  thing  of  this  owing  to  the  transla- 
tors; for,  from  every  thing  I have  seen  of  Dry- 
den,  I think  him,  in  genius  and  fluency  of  lan- 
guage, Pope’s  master.  I have  not  perused 
Tasso  enough  to  form  an  opinion ; in  some 
future  letter  you  shall  have  my  ideas  of  him  ; 
though  I am  conscious  my  criticisms  must  be 
very  inaccurate  and  imperfect,  as  there  I have 
ever  felt  and  lamented  my  want  of  learning 
most. 


No  L. 

T O TEE  SAME. 

27 th  May , 1788. 

Madam, — 

I have  been  torturing  my  philosophy  to  no 
purpose  to  account  for  that  kind  partiality  of 
yours,  which,  unlike  * * * has  followed 

me  in  my  return  to  the  shade  of  life,  with  as- 
eiduous  benevolence.  Often  did  I regret,  in  the 
fleeting  hours  of  my  VVill-o’-the- Wisp-appear- 
ance, that  *'  here  I had  no  continuing  city and, 
but  for  the  consolation  of  a few  solid  guineas, 
could  almost  lament  the  lime  that  a momentary 
acquaintance  with  wealth  and  splendor  put  me 
so  much  out  of  conceit  with  the  sworn  com- 
panions of  my  road  through  life,  insignificance 
and  poverty. 

* * * * 

There  are  few  circumstances  relating  to  the 
unequal  distribution  of  the  good  things  of  this  life, 
that  give  me  more  vexation  (I  mean  in  what  I 
6ee  around  me,)  than  the  importance  the  opulent 
bestow  on  their  trifling  family  affairs,  compared 
with  the  very  same  things  on  the  contracted 
scale  of  a cottage.  Last  afternoon  I had  the 
honor  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  at  a good  woman’s 
fire-side,  where  the  planks  that  composed  the 
floor  were  decorated  with  a splendid  carpet,  and 
the  gay  tables  sparkled  with  silver  and  china. 
’Tis  now  about  term-day,  and  there  has  been  a 
revolution  among  those  creatures,  who,  though  in 
appearance  partakers,  and  equally  noble  par- 
takers, of  the  same  nature  with  Madame,  are 
from  time  to  time,  their  nerves,  their  sinews, 
their  health,  strength,  wisdom,  experience, 
genius,  time,  nay,  a good  part  of  their  very 
thoughts,  sold  for  months  and  years,  * * 

* * not  only  to  the  necessities,  the  conve- 
niences, but  the  caprices  of  tbe  important  few.* 

* Servants,  in  Scotland,  are  hired  from  term  to 
term  ; i.  e.  from  Whitsunday  to  Martinmas,  &.c. 


We  talked  of  the  insignificant  creatures;  nay, 
notwithstanding  their  general  stupidity  and  ras- 
cality, did  some  of  the  poor  devils  the  honor  to 
commend  them.  But  light  be  the  turf  upon  his 
breast  who  taught — “ Reverence  thyself.”  We 
looked  down  on  the  unpolished  wretches,  their 
impertinent  wives  and  clouterly  brats,  as  the 
lordly  bull  does  on  the  little  dirty  ant-hill,  whose 
puny  inhabitants  he  crushes  in  the  carelessness 
of  his  rambles,  or  tosses  in  the  air  in  the  wan- 
tonness of  his  pride. 

# * * * 


No.  LI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

at  mr.  dunlop’s,  haddington. 

Ellisland,  Yith  June,  1788. 
“Where’er  I roam,  whatever  realms  I see, 

My  heart,  untravel’d,  fondly  turns  to  thee, 

Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 

And  drags  at  each  remove  a lengthen’d  chain.” 

Goldsmith. 

This  is  the  second  day,  my  honored  friend, 
that  I have  been  on  my  farm.  A solitary  in- 
mate of  an  old  smoky  Spence  ; far  from  every 
object  I love,  or  by  whom  I am  beloved  ; nor 
any  acquaintance  older  than  yesterday,  except 
Jenny  Geddes,  the  old  mare  I ride  on ; while 
uncouth  cares  and  novel  plans  hourly  insult,  my 
awkward  ignorance  and  bashful  inexperience. 
There  is  a foggy  atmosphere  native  to  my  soul 
in  the  hour  of  care,  consequently  the  dreary  ob- 
jects seem  larger  than  the  life.  Extreme  sen- 
sibility, irritated  and  prejudiced  on  the  gloomy 
side  by  a series  of  misfortunes  and  disappoint- 
ments, at  that  period  of  my  existence  when  tho 
soul  is  laying  in  her  cargo  of  ideas  for  the  voy- 
age of  life,  is,  I believe  the  principal  cause  of 
this  unhappy  frame  of  mind. 

“ The  valiant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer  1 

Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes  1”  &c. 

Your  surmise,  Madam,  is  just;  I am  indeed 
a husband. 

* # # # 

I found  a once  much-loved  and  still  much- 
loved female,  literally  and  truly  cast  out  to  the 
mercy  of  the  naked  elements ; but  I enabled 
her  to  purchase  a shelter  ; and  there  is  no  spor- 
ting with  a fellow-creature’s  happiness  or  mis- 
ery. 

The  most  placid  good-nature  and  sweetness 
of  disposition  : a warm  heart,  gratefully  devot- 
ed with  all  its  powers  to  love  me  ; vigorous 
health  and  sprightly  cheerfulness,  set  off  to  the 
best  advantage  by  a more  than  commonly  hand- 
some figure  ; these,  I think  in  a woman,  may 
make  a good  wife,  though  she  should  never  have 
read  a page  but  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and 
New  Testament , nor  have  danced  in  a brighter 
assembly  than  a penny-pay  wedding. 

* * * * 


No.  L1I. 

TO  MR.  P.  HILL. 

My  Dear  Hill, — 

I shall  say  nothing  at  all  to  your  mad  pres- 


246 


LETTERS. 


ent — you  have  long  and  often  been  of  important 
service  to  me.  and  I suppose  you  mean  to  go  on 
conferring  obligations  until  I shall  not  be  able  to 
lift  up  my  face  before  you.  In  the  mean  time 
as  Sir  Roger  de  CoverJy,  because  it  happened 
to  be  a cold  day  in  which  he  made  his  will,  or- 
dered his  servants  great  coats  for  mourning,  so, 
because  I have  been  this  week  plagued  with  an 
indigestion,  I have  sent  you  by  the  carrier  a fine 
old  ewe  milk  cheese. 

Indigestion  is  the  devil : nay,  ’ tis  the  devil 
and  all.  It  besets  a man  in  every  one  of  his 
senses.  I lose  my  appetite  at  the  sight  of  suc- 
cessful knavery,  and  sicken  to  loathing  at  the 
noise  and  nonsense  of  self-important  folly. 
When  the  hollow  hearted  wretch  takes  me  by 
the  hand,  the  feeling  spoils  my  dinner  ; the 
proud  man’s  wine  so  offends  my  palate  that  it 
chokes  me  in  the  gullet ; and  the  pulvilised, 
feathered,  pert,  coxcomb,  is  so  disgustful  in  my 
nostril,  that  my  stomach  turns. 

If  ever  you  have  any  of  these  disagreeable 
sensations,  let  me  prescribe  for  you  patience  and 
a bit  of  my  cheese.  I know  that  you  are  no 
niggard  of  your  good  things  among  your  friends, 
and  some  of  them  are  in  much  need  of  a slice. 
There  in  my  eye  is  our  friend,  Smellie  ; a man 
positively  of  the  first  abilities  and  greatest 
strength  of  mind,  as  well  as  one  of  the  best  hearts 
and  keenest  wi:s  that  I have  ever  met  with;  when 
you  see  him,  as  alas  ! he  too  is  smarting  at  the 
pinch  of  distressful  circumstances,  aggravated 
by  the  sneer  of  contumelious  greatness — a bit 
of  my  cheese  alone  will  not  cure  him  ; but  if 
you  add  a tankard  of  brown  stout,  and  superadd 
a magnum  of  right  Oporto;  you  will  see  his  sor- 
rows vanish  like  the  morning  mist  before  the 
summer  sun. 

C h,  the  earliest  friend,  except  my  only 

brother,  that  I have  on  earth,  and  one  of  the 
worthiest  fellows  that  ever  any  man  called  by 
the  name  of  friend,  if  a luncheon  of  my  cheese 
would  help  to  rid  him  of  some  of  his  superabun- 
dant modesty,  you  would  do  well  to  give  it  him. 

David,*  with  his  Courant , comes  too,  across 
my  recollection,  and  I beg  you  will  help  him 
largely  from  the  said  ewe-milk  cheese,  to  enable 
him  to  digest  those — bedaubing  paragraphs  with 
which  he  is  eternally  larding  the  lean  characters 
of  certain  great  men  in  a certain  great  town.  I 
grant  you  the  periods  are  very  well  turned;  so, 
a fresh  egg  is  a very  good  thing,  but  when 
thrown  at  a man  in  a pillory  it  does  not  at  all 
improve  his  figure,  not  to  mention  the  irrepara- 
ble loss  of  the  egg. 

My  facetious  friend,  D r,  I would  wish 

also  to  be  a partaker:  not  to  digest  his  spleen, 
for  that  he  laughs  off,  but  to  digest  his  last  night's 
wine  at  the  last  field  day  of  the  Crochallan 
corps,  t 

Among  our  common  friends,  I must  not  for- 
get one  of  the  dearest  of  them,  Cunningham. 
The  brutality,  insolence,  and  selfishness  of  a 
world  unworthy  of  having  such  a fellow  as  he  is 
in  it,  I know  slicks  in  his  stomach  ; and  if  you 
can  help  him  to  any  thing  that  will  make  him 
a little  easier  on  that  score,  it  will  be  very  obli- 
ging. 

As  to  honest  J S e,  he  is  such  a con- 

tented happy  man,  that  1 know  not  what  can 

* Printer  of  the  Ednburgh  Evening  Courant. 

t A club  of  choice  spirits. 


annoy  him,  except  perhaps  he  may  not  have 
got  the  better  of  a parcel  of  modest  anecdotes 
which  a certain  poet  gave  him  one  night  at  sup- 
per, the  last  time  the  said  poet  was  in  town. 

Though  I have  mentioned  so  many  men  of 
law,  I shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  them  pro- 
fessedly.— The  faculty  are  beyond  my  prescrip- 
tion. As  to  their  clients,  that  is  another  thing  : 
God  knows  they  have  much  to  digest  ! 

The  clergy  I pass  by  ; their  profundity  of  eru- 
dition, and  their  liberality  of  sentiment ; their 
total  want  of  pride,  and  their  detestation  of  hy- 
pocrisy, are  so  proverbially  notorious  as  to  place 
them  far,  far  above  either  my  praise  or  censure. 

1 was  going  to  mention  a man  of  worth,  whom 
I have  the  honor  to  call  friend,  the  Laird  of 
Craigdarroch  ; but  I have  spoken  to  the  land- 
lord of  the  King’s-arms  inn  here,  to  have,  at 
the  next  county-meeting,  a large  ewe-milk 
cheese  on  the  table,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Dum- 
friesshire whigs,  to  enable  them  to  digest  the 
Duke  of  Queensberry’s  late  political  conduct. 

I have  just  this  moment  an  opportunity  of  a 
private  hand  to  Edinburgh,  as  perhaps  you 
would  not  digest  double  postage. 


No.  LIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mauckline,  2d  August,  1788. 
Honored  Madam, — 

Your  kind  letter  welcomed  me,  yesternight 
to  Ayrshire.  I am  indeed  seriously  angry  with 
you  at  the  quantum  of  your  luck-penny  ; but, 
vexed  and  hurt  as  I was.  I could  not  help  laugh- 
ing very  heartily  at  the  noble  Lord’s  apology  for 
the  missed  napkin. 

I would  write  you  from  Nithsdale,  and  give 
you  my  direction  there,  but  I have  scarcely  an 
opportunity  of  calling  at  the  post-office  once  in 
a fortnight.  I am  six  miles  from  Dumfries,  am 
scarcely  ever  in  it  myself,  and,  as  yet,  have  lit- 
tle acquaintance  in  the  neighborhood.  Besides, 
1 am  now  very  busy  on  my  farm,  building  a 
dwelling-house  ; as  at  present  I am  almost  an 
evangelical  man  in  Nithsdale,  for  I have  scarce 
“ where  to  lay  my  head.” 

There  are  some  passages  in  your  last  that 
brought  tears  to  my  eyes.  “ The  heart  know- 
eth  its  own  sorrows,  and  a stranger  intermed- 
dleth  not  therewith.”  The  repository  of  these 
“ sorrows  of  the  heart,”  is  a kind  of  sanctum 
sanctorum ; and  ’tis  only  a chosen  friend,  and 
that  too  at  particular  sacred  times,  who  dares 
enter  into  them. 

“Heaven  oft  tears  the  bosom  chords 
That  nature  finest  strung.” 

You  will  excuse  this  quotation  for  the  sake 
of  the  author.  Instead  of  entering  on  this  sub- 
ject farther,  I shall  transcribe  you  a few  lines  I 
wrote  in  a hermitage  belonging  to  a gentleman 
in  my  Nithsdale  neighborhood.  They  are  al- 
most the  only  favors  the  muses  have  conferred 
on  me  in  that  country. * 

Since  I am  in  the  way  of  transcribing,  the 
following  were  the  production  of  yesterday,  as 
I jogged  through  the  wild  hills  of  New-Cum- 

* The  lines  transcribed  were  those  written  in  Fri- 
ars-Carse  Hermitage.  See  Poems  p.  45. 


LETTERS. 


247 


nock.  I intend  inserting  them,  or  something 
like  them,  in  an  epistle  I am  going  to  write  to 
the  gentleman  on  whose  friendship  my  excise- 
hopes  depend,  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry,  one  of 
the  worthiest  and  most  accomplished  gentle- 
men, not  only  of  this  country,  but  I will  dare  to 
say  it,  this  age.  The  following  are  just  the  first 
crude  thoughts  “ unhouseled,  unanointed,  un- 
annealed.” 

» * * * 

Pity  the  tuneful  muses’  helpless  train  : . 

Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  life’s  stormy  main : 

The  world  were  ble3s’d.  did  bliss  on  them  depend  ; 

A I) ! that  “ the  friendly  e’er  should  want  a friend !” 

The  little  fate  bestows  they  share  as  soon  ; 

Unlike  sage,  proverb’d  wisdom’s  hard- wrung  boon. 

Let  prudence  number  o’er  each  sturdy  son 

Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun  ; 

Who  feel  by  reason,  and  who  give  by  rule  ; 

(Instinct’s  a brute,  and  sentiment  a fool !) 

Who  make  poor  will  do  wait  upon  I should ; 

We  own  they’re  prudent,  but  who  owns  they’re 
good  1 

Ye  wise  ones,  hence  ! ye  hurt  the  social  eye ! 

God's  image  rudely  etch’d  on  base  alloy! 

But  come 

Here  the  muse  left  me.  I am  astonished  at 
what  you  tell  me  of  Anthony’s  writing  to  me. 
I never  received  it.  Poor  fellow!  you  vex  me 
much  by  telling  me  that  he  is  unfortunate.  I 
shall  be  in  Ayrshire  ten  days  from  this  date.  I 
have  just  room  for  an  old  Roman  farewell ! 


No.  LIV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Mauckline,  1 Oth  August,  1788. 

My  much  honored  Friend, — 

Yours  of  the  24ih  June  is  before  me.  I found 
it,  as  well  as  another  valued  friend — my  wife, 
waiting  to  welcome  me  to  Ayrshire  : I met  both 
with  the  sincerest  pleasure. 

When  I write  you,  Madam,  I do  not  sit  down 
to  answer  every  paragraph  of  yours,  by  echoing 
every  sentiment,  like  the  faithful  Commons  of 
Great  Brttain  in  Parliament  Assembled,  an- 
swering a speech  from  the  best  of  kings  ! I 
express  myself  in  the  fulness  of  my  heart,  and 
may  perhaps  be  guilty  of  neglecting  some  of 
your  kind  inquiries ; but  not,  from  your  very 
odd  reason,  that  I do  not  read  your  letters.  All 
your  epistles  for  several  months  have  cost  me 
nothing,  except  a swelling  throb  of  gratitude, 
or  a deep  felt  sentiment  of  veneration. 

Mrs.  Burns,  Madam,  is  the  identical  woman 
* * * % 

When  she  first  found  herself  “ as  women  wish 
to  be  who  love  their  lords,”  as  I loved  her  near- 
ly to  distraction,  we  took  steps  for  a private 
marriage.  Her  parents  got  the  hint : and  not 
only  forbade  me  her  company  and  the  house, 
but,  on  my  rumored  West-Indian  voyage,  got 
a warrant  to  put  me  in  jail  till  I should  find  se- 
curity in  my  about-to-be  paternal  relaiion.  You 
know  my  lucky  reverse  of  fortune.  On  my  ec- 
latant  return  to  Mauchline,  I was  made  very 
welcome  to  visit  my  girl.  The  usual  conse- 
quences began  to  betray  her;  and  as  1 was  at 
that  time  laid  up  a cripple  in  Edinburgh,  she 
was  turned,  literally  turned  out  of  doors:  and  I 


wrote  to  a friend  to  shelter  her  till  my  return, 
when  our  marriage  was  declared.  Her  happi- 
ness or  misery  were  in  my  hands ; and  who 
could  trifie  with  such  a deposite  ? 

* * * * 

I can  easily  fancy  a more  agreeable  compan- 
ion for  my  journey  of  life,  but,  upon  my  honor, 

1 have  never  seen  the  individual  instance. 

* * * * 

Circumstanced  as  I am,  I could  never  have 
got  a female  partner  for  life,  who  could  have 
entered  into  my  favorite  studies,  relished  my 
favorite  authors,  &c.  without  probably  entailing 
on  me,  at  the  same  time,  expensive  living,  fan- 
tastic caprice,  perhaps  apish  affectation,  with  all 
the  other  blessed  boarding-school  acquirements, 
which  {pardonnez  mot,  Madame , ) are  sometimes, 
to  be  found  among  females  of  the  upper  ranks, 
but  almost  universally  pervade  the  misses  of  the 
would-be  gentry. 

# # * * 

I like  your  way  in  your  church-yard  lucubra- 
tions. Thoughts  that  are  the  spontaneous  re- 
sult of  accidental  situations,  either  respecting 
health,  place,  or  company,  have  often  a strength 
and  always  an  originality,  that  would  in  vain  be 
looked  for  in  fancied  circumstances  and  studied 
paragraphs.  For  me,  I have  often  thought  of 
keeping  a letter,  in  progression,  by  me,  to  send 
you  when  the  sheet  i3  written  out.  Now  I talk 
of  sheets,  1 must  tell  you  my  reason  for  writing 
to  you  on  paper  of  this  kind,  is  my  pruriency 
of  writing  to  you  at  large.  A page  of  post  is 
on  such  a dissocial  narrow-minded  scale  that  I 
cannot  abide  it ; and  double  letters,  at  least  in 
my  miscellaneous  reverie  manner,  are  a mon- 
strous tax  in  a close  correspondence. 


No.  LV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Ellisland,  1 6lk  Augzist,  1788. 

I am  in  a fine  disposition,  my  honored  friend, 
to  send  you  an  elegiac  epistle,  and  want  only 
genius  to  make  it  Shenstonian. 

“ Why  droops  my  heart  with  fancied  woes  forlorn? 
Why  sinks  my  soul  beneath  each  wint’ry  sky  1” 

* * * # 

My  increasing  cares  in  this,  as  yet.  strange 
country — gloomy  conjectures  in  the  dark  vista 
of  futurity — consciousness  of  my  own  inability 
for  the  struggle  of  the  world — my  broadened 
mark  to  misfortune  in  a wife  and  children  ; — I 
could  indulge  these  reflections,  till  my  humor 
should  ferment  into  the  most  acid  chagrin,  that 
would  corrode  the  very  thread  of  life. 

To  counterwork  these  baneful  feelings,  I havo 
sat  down  to  write  to  you  ; as  I declare  upon  my 
soul,  I always  find  that  the  most  sovereign  balm 
for  my  wounded  spirit. 

I was  yesterday  at  Mr. ’s  to  dinner  for 

the  first  time.  My  reception  was  quite  to  my 
mind:  from  the  lady  of  the  house,  quite  flatter- 
ing. She  sometimes  hits  on  a couplet  or  two, 
impromptu.  She  repeated  one  or  two  to  the  ad- 
miration of  all  present.  My  suffrage  as  a pro- 
fessional man,  was  expected  ; I for  once  went 
agonising  over  the  belly  of  my  conscience. 
Pardon  me,  ye,  my  adored  household  gods — 


248 


LETTERS. 


Independence  of  Spirit  and  Integrity  of  Soul  ! 
In  the  course  of  conversation,  Johnson's  Musi- 
cal Museum , a collection  of  Scottish  songs  with 
the  music,  was  talked  of.  We  got  a song  on 
the  harpsichord,  beginning, 

“ Raving  winds  around  her  blowing.1’* 

The  air  was  much  admired  ; the  lady  of  the 
house  asked  me  whose  were  the  words;  “ Mine. 
Madam — they  are  indeed  my  very  best  verses;” 
she  took  not  the  smallest  notice  of  them  ! The 
old  Scottish  proverb  says  well,  ‘‘king’s  caff  is 
better  than  ither  folk’s  corn.”  I was  going  to 
make  a New  Testament  quotation  about  ‘‘cast- 
ing pearls  ;”  but  that  would  be  too  virulent,  for 
the  lady  is  actually  a woman  of  sense  and  taste. 
# # # * 

After  all  that  has  been  said  on  the  other  side 
of  the  question,  man  is  by  no  means  a happy 
creature.  I do  not  speak  of  the  selected  few 
favored  by  partial  heaven ; whose  souls  are 
turned  to  gladness,  amid  riches  and  honors  and 
prudence  and  wisdom.  I speak  of  the  neglect- 
ed many,  whose  nerves,  whose  sinews,  whose 
days,  are  sold  to  the  minions  of  fortune. 

If  I thought  you  had  never  seen  it,  I would 
transcribe  for  you  a stanza  of  an  old  Scottish 
ballad  called  The  Life  and  Age  of  Man;  begin- 
ning thus : 

“ Twas  in  the  sixteenth  hunder  year 
Of  God  and  fifiy-three. 

Frae  Christ  was  born,  that  bought  us  dear, 

As  writings  testified’ 

I had  an  old  grand-  uncle,  with  whom  my 
mother  lived  a while  in  her  girlish  years  ; the 
good  old  man,  for  such  he  was,  was  long  blind 
ere  he  died,  during  which  time,  his  highest  en- 
joyment was  to  sit  down  and  cry,  while  my  mo- 
ther would  sing  the  simple  old  song  of  The  Life 
and  Age  of  Man. 

It  is  this  way  of  thinking,  it  is  these  melan- 
choly truths,  that  make  religion  so  precious  to 
the  poor,  miserable  children  of  men — if  it  is  a 
mere  phantom,  existing  only  in  the  heated  im- 
agination of  enthusiasm. 

“ What  truth  on  earth  so  precious  as  the  lie  V’ 
My  idle  reasonings  sometimes  make  me  a 
little  sceptical,  but  the  necessities  of  my  heart 
always  give  the  cold  philosophizings  the  lie. 
Who  looks  for  the  heart  weaned  from  earth  ; 
the  soul  affianced  to  her  God  ; the  correspond- 
ence fixed  with  heaven  ; the  pious  supplication 
and  devout  thanksgiving,  constant  as  the  vicis- 
situdes of  even  and  morn  ; who  thinks  to  meet 
with  these  in  the  court,  the  palace,  in  the  glare 
of  public  life  ? No  : to  find  them  in  their  pre- 
cious importance  and  divine  efficacy,  we  must 
search  among  the  obscure  recesses  of  disappoint- 
ment, affliction,  poverty,  and  distress. 

I am  sure,  dear  Madam,  you  are  now  more 
than  pleased  with  the  length  of  my  letters.  I 
return  to  Ayrshire  middle  of  next  week  ; and  it 
quickens  my  pace  to  think  that  there  will  be  a 
letter  from  you  waiting  me  there.  I must  be 
here  again  very  soon  for  my  harvest. 


No.  LVI. 

TO  R.  GRAHAM,  Esq.  OF  FINTRY. 
Sir, — 

When  I had  the  honor  of  being  introduced  to 
* See  Poems,  p.  80. 


you  at  Athole- house,  I did  not  think  so  soon  of 
asking  a favor  of  you.  When  Lear,  in  Shak- 
speare,  asks  old  Kent  w’hy  he  washes  to  be  in  his 
service,  he  answers,  “ Because  you  have  that 
in  your  face  which  I could  like  to  call  masrer.” 
For  some  such  reason,  Sir,  do  I now  solicit 
your  paironage.  You  know,  I dare  say,  of  an 
application  I have  lately  made  to  your  Board  to 
be  admitted  an  officer  of  excise.  I have,  accor- 
ding to  form,  been  examined  by  a supervisor, 
and  to-day  I gave  in  his  certificate,  with  a re- 
quest for  an  order  for  instructions.  In  this  af- 
fair, if  I succeed,  I am  afraid  I shall  but  too 
much  need  a patronising  friend.  Propriety  of 
conduct  as  a man,  and  fidelity  and  attention  as 
an  officer,  I dare  engage  for  : but  with  anything 
like  business,  except  manual  labor,  I am  total- 
ly unacquainted. 

* * * * 

I had  intended  to  have  closed  my  late  appear- 
ance on  the  stage  of  life  in  the  character  of  a 
country  farmer ; but  after  discharging  some  fil- 
ial and  fraternal  claims,  I find  I could  only  fight 
for  existence  in  that  miserable  manner,  which  I 
have  lived  to  see  throw  a venerable  parent  into 
the  jaws  of  a jail : w'hence  death,  the  poor  man’s 
last  and  often  best  friend,  rescued  him. 

I know,  Sir,  that  to  need  your  goodness  is  to 
have  a claim  on  it ; may  I therefore  beg  your 
patronage  to  forward  me  in  this  affair,  till  I be 
appointed  to  a division,  where  by  the  help  of 
rigid  economy,  I will  try  to  support  that  inde- 
pendence so  dear  to  my  soul,  but  which  has 
been  too  often  so  distant  from  my  situation.* 


No.  LVII. 

TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

Mauehline,  1st  October,  1788. 

I have  been  here  in  this  country  about  three 
days,  and  all  that  time  my  chief  reading  has 
been  the  “ Address  to  Loch -Lomond,”  you 
were  so  obliging  as  to  send  me.  Were  I em- 
pannelled  one  of  the  author’s  jury  to  determine 
his  criminality  respecting  the  sin  of  poesy,  my 
verdict  should  be  “ guilty  ! A poet  of  Nature’s 
making.”  It  is  an  excellent  method  for  im- 
provement, and  w hat  I believe  every  poet  does, 
to  place  some  favorite  classic  author,  in  his  own 
walk  of  study  and  composition.  Though  your 
author  had  not  mentioned  the  name  I could 
have,  at  half  a glance,  guessed  his  model  to  be 
Thomson.  Will  my  brother-poet  forgive  me, 
if  I venture  to  hint,  that  his  imitation  of  that 
immortal  bard  is,  in  two  or  three  places,  rather 
more  servile  than  such  a genius  as  his  requir- 
ed— e.  g. 

To  sooth  the  madding  passions  all  to  peace. 

ADDRESS. 

To  sooth  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace. 

THOMSON. 

I think  the  Address  is,  in  simplicity,  harmony 
and  elegance  of  versification,  fully  equal  to  the 
Seasons.  Like  Thomson,  loo,  he  has  looked 
info  nature  for  himself;  you  meet  with  no  cop- 
ied description.  One  particular  criticism  I made 
at  first  reading  ; in  no  one  instance  has  he  said 
too  much.  He  never  flags  in  his  progress,  but, 

* Here  followed  the  poetical  part  of  the  Epistle, 

I given  in  the  Poems,  p.  CO. 


LETTERS. 


249 


like  a true  poet  of  Nature’s  making,  kindles  in 
his  course.  His  beginning  is  simple  and  mod- 
est, as  if  distrustful  of  the  strength  of  his  pinion  ; 
only,  I do  not  altogether  like — 

“ Truth, 

“The  soul  of  every  song  that’s  nobly  great.” 

Fiction  is  the  soul  of  many  a song  that  is  no- 
bly great.  Perhaps  I am  wrong  : this  may  be 
but  a prose  criticism.  Is  not  the  phrase,  in  line 
7,  page  6,  “ Great  Lake.”  too  much  vulgarized 
by  every-day  language,  for  so  sublime  a poem  ? 

“Great  mass  of  waters,  theme  for  nobler  song,” 

is  perhaps  no  emendation.  His  enumeration  of 
a comparison  with  other  lakes  is  at  once  har- 
monious and  poetic.  Every  reader’s  ideas  must 
sweep  the 

“ Winding  margin  of  a hundred  miles.” 

The  perspective  that  follows  mountains  blue 
— the  imprisoned  billows  beating  in  vain — the 
wooded  isles — the  digression  on  the  yew  tree 
— “Ben-Lomond’s  lofty  cloud  envelop'd  head,’’ 
&c.  are  beautiful.  A thunder-storm  is  a sub- 
ject which  has  been  often  tried;  yet  our  poet  in 
his  grand  picture,  has  interjected  a circumstance 
so  far  as  1 know,  entirely  original : 

“ The  gloom 

Deep-seam'd  with  frequent  streaks  of  moving  fire.” 

In  his  preface  to  the  storm,  “ The  glens  how- 
dark  between  !”  is  noble  highland  landscape  ! 
The  “rain  ploughing  the  red  mould,’’ too,  is 
beautilully  fancied.  Ben  Lomond’s  “ lofty  path- 
less top,’’  is  a good  expression  ; and  the  sur- 
rounding view  from  it  is  truly  great : the 

“ Silver  mist 

“ Beneath  the  beaming  sun,” 

is  well  described  : and  here  he  has  contrived  to 
enliven  his  poem  with  a little  of  that  passion 
which  bids  fair,  I think,  to  usurp  the  modern 
muses  altogether.  I know  not  how  far  this  epis- 
ode is  a beauty  upon  the  whole  ; but  theswaiu’s 
wish  to  carry  “ some  faint  idea  of  the  vision 
bright,”  to  entertain  her  “ partial  listening  ear,” 
is  a pretty  thought.  But,  in  my  opinion,  the 
most  beautiful  passages  in  the  whole  poem  are 
the  fowls  crowding,  in  wintry  frosts,  to  Loch- 
•Lomond’s  ‘‘hospitable  flood;  their  wheeling 
round,  their  lighting,  mixing,  diving,  &c. ; and 
the  glorious  description  of  the  sportsman.  This 
last  is  equal  to  anything  in  the  Seasons.  The 
idea  of  ” the  floating  tribes  distant  seen,  far  | 
glistering  to  the  moon,”  provoking  his  eye  as  he 
is  obliged  to  leave  them,  is  a noble  ray  of  poet- 
ic genius.  ‘‘  The  howling  winds,”  the  ‘‘  hide- 
ous roar”  of”  the  white  cascades,”  are  all  in 
the  same  style. 

I forget  that,  while  I am  thus  holding  forth, 
with  the  heedless  warmth  of  an  enthusiast,  I am 
perhaps  tiring  you  with  nonsense.  I must,  how- 
ever. mention,  that  the  last  verse  of  the  six- 
teenth page  is  one  of  the  most  elegant  compli- 
ments I have  ever  seen.  I must  likewise  no- 
tice that  beautiful  paragraph,  beginning,  ‘‘The 
gleaming  lake,”  <fcc.  I dare  not  go  into  the 
particular  beauties  of  the  two  last  paragraphs,  i 
but  they  are  admirably  fine,  and  truly  Ossianic.  ! 

I must  beg  your  pardon  for  this  lengthened  ! 
scrawl.  I had  no  idea  of  it  when  I began — I 
should  like  to  know  who  the  author  is;  but,  I 


whoever  he  be,  please  present  him  with  my 
grateful  thanks  for  the  entertainment  he  has 
afforded  me.* 

A friend  of  mine  desired  me  to  commission 
for  him  two  books,  Letters  on  the  Religion  es- 
sential toman , a book  you  sent  me  before  ; and, 
The  World  Unmasked,  or  the  Philosopher  the 
greatest  Cheat.  Send  me  them  by  the  first,  op- 
portunity. The  Bible  you  sent  me  is  truly  ele- 
gant, 1 only  wish  it  had  been  in  two  volumes. 


No.  LVIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP,  AT  MOREHAM 
MAINS. 

Mauchlinc,  13 th  November , 1788. 

Madam. — 

I had  the  very  great  pleasure  of  dining  at 
Dunlop  yesterday.  Men  are  said  to  flatter  wo- 
men because  they  are  weak  ; if  it  is  so,  poets 
must  be  weaker  still;  for  Misses  R.  and  K., 
and  Miss  G.  M K.,  with  their  flattering  atten- 
tions and  artful  compliments,  absolutely  turned 
my  head.  I own  they  did  not  lard  me  over  as 
many  a poet  does  his  patron  * * * * but 

they  so  intoxicated  me  with  their  sly  insinua- 
tions and  delicate  inuendoes  of  compliment,  that 
if  it  had  not  been  for  a lucky  recollection,  how 
much  additional  weight  and  lustre  your  good 
opinion  and  friendship  must  give  me  in  t hat  cir- 
cle, I had  certainly  looked  upon  myself  as  a 
person  of  no  small  consequence.  I dare  not 
say  one  word  how  much  I was  charmed  with 
the  Major’s  friendly  welcome,  elegant,  manner, 
and  acute  remark,  lest  I should  be  thought  to 
balance  my  orientalisms  of  applause  over  against 
the  finest  queyt  in  Ayrshire,  which  he  made 
me  a present  of  to  help  and  adorn  my  farm- 
stock.  As  it  was  on  Hallowday,  I am  deter- 
mined annually,  as  that  day  returns,  to  decorate 
her  horns  with  an  ode  of  gratitude  to  the  family 
of  Dunlop. 

* * * * 

So  soon  as  I know  of  your  arrival  at  Dunlop, 
I will  take  the  first  conveniency  to  dedicate  a 
day,  or  perhaps  two,  to  you  and  friendship,  un- 
der the  guarantee  of  the  Major’s  hospitality. 
There  will  be  soon  threescore  and  ten  miles 
of  permanent  distance  between  us ; and  now 
that  your  friendship  and  friendly  correspondence 
is  entwji-ted  with  the  heart-strings  of  my  enjoy- 
ment of  life , I must  indulge  myself  in  a happy 
day  of  “The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of 
soul.” 


No.  L1X. 


TO**** 

November  8,  1788. 

Sir, — 

Notwithstanding  the  opprobrious  epithets  with 
which  some  of  our  philosophers  and  gloomy  sec- 


* The  poem,  entitled,  Jin  Address  to  Lorh  Lomond , 
is  said  to  lie  written  by  a gentleman,  now  one  of  the 
Masters  of  the  Hijrh-school  at  Edinburgh  ; and  the 
same  who  translated  the  beautiful  story  of  the  Paria, 
as  published  in  the  Bee  of  Dr.  Anderson.  E. 

1 Heifer. 


250 


LETTERS. 


taries  have  branded  our  nature — the  principle 
of  universal  selfishness,  the  proneness  to  all  evil, 
they  have  given  us  ; still  the  detestation  in  which 
inhumanity  to  the  distressed,  or  insolence  to  the 
fallen,  are  held  by  all  mankind,  show's  that  they 
are  not  natives  of  the  human  heart.  Even  the 
unhappy  partner  of  our  kind,  w'lio  is  undone,  the 
bitter  consequence  of  his  follies  or  his  crimes; — 
who  but  sympathises  with  the  miseries  of  this 
ruined  profligate  brother?  We  forget  the  inju- 
ries, and  feel  for  the  man. 

I went,  last  Wednesday  to  my  parish -church, 
most  cordially  to  join  in  grateful  aeknowdedg-  j 
ment  to  the  Author  of  all  Good,  for  the  con- 
sequent blessings  of  the  glorious  Revolution. 
To  that  auspicious  event  we  owe  no  less  than 
our  liberties,  civil  and  religious:  to  it  we  are 
likewise  indebted  for  the  present  Royal  Family, 
the  ruling  features  of  whose  administration  have 
ever  been  mildness  to  the  subject,  and  tender- 
ness of  his  rights. 

Bred  and  educated  in  revolution  principles, 
the  principles  of  reason  and  common  sense,  it 
could  not  be  any  silly  political  prejudice  which 
made  my  heart  revolt  at  the  harsh,  abusive 
manner  in  which  the  reverend  gentleman  men- 
tioned the  House  of  Stew'art,  and  which,  I am 
afraid,  was  too  much  the  language  of  the  day. 
We  may  rejoice  sufficiently  in  our  deliverance 
from  past  evils,  without  cruelly  raking  up  the 
ashes  of  those  whose  misfortune  it  was,  perhaps 
as  much  as  their  crime,  to  be  the  authors  of 
those  evils  ; and  we  may  bless  God  for  all  his 
goodness  to  us  as  a nation,  without,  at  the  same 
time,  cursing  a few  ruined,  powerless  exiles, 
who  only  harbored  ideas,  and  made  attempts, 
that  most  of  us  would  have  done  had  we  been 
in  their  situation. 

“ The  bloody  and  tyrannical  house  of  Stew- 
art,’’  may  be  said  with  propriety  and  justice 
when  compared  with  the  present  Royal  Family, 
and  the  sentiments  of  our  days  ; but  is  there  no 
allowance  to  be  made  for  the  manners  of  the 
time?  Were  the  royal  competitors  of  the 
Stewarts  more  attentive  to  their  subjects’  rights? 
Might  not  the  epithets  of  “ bloody  and  tyran- 
nical,” be  with  at  least  equal  justice  applied 
to  the  House  of  Tudor,  of  York,  or  any  other 
of  their  predecessors  ? 

The  simple  state  of  the  case,  Sir,  seems  to 
be  this  : — At  that  period,  the  science  of  govern- 
ment, the  knowledge  of  the  true  relation  be- 
tween king  and  subject,  was,  like  other  sciences 
and  other  knowledge,  just  in  its  infancy,  emer- 
ging from  dark  ages  of  ignorance  and  barbarity. 

The  Stewarts  only  contended  for  preroga- 
tives which  they  knew  their  predecessors  en- 
joyed, and  which  they  saw  their  contemporaries 
enjoying;  but  these  prerogatives  were  inimical 
to  the  Happiness  of  a nation  and  the  rights  of 
subjects. 

In  this  contest  between  prince  and  people, 
the  consequence  of  that  light  of  science  whicH 
had  lately  dawned  over  Europe,  the  monarch 
of  France,  for  example,  was  victorious  over  the 
struggling  liberties  of  his  people ; with  us, 
luckily,  the  monarch  failed,  and  his  unwarrant- 
able pretensions  fell  a sacrifice  to  our  rights  and 
happiness.  Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  wis- 
dom of  leading  individuals,  or  to  the  justling  of 
parties,  I cannot  pretend  to  determine ; but 
likewise,  happily  for  us,  the  kingly  power  was 


shifted  into  another  branch  of  the  family,  who,  as 
they  owed  the  throne  solely  to  the  call  of  a free 
people,  could  claim  nothing  inconsistent  with 
the  covenanted  terms  which  placed  them  there. 

The  Stewarts  have  been  condemned  and 
laughed  at  for  the  folly  and  impracticability  of 
their  attempts  in  1715  and  1745.  That  they 
failed  I bless  God;  but  cannot  join  in  the  ridi- 
cule against  them.  Who  does  not  know  that 
the  abilities  or  defects  of  leaders  and  command- 
ers are  often  hidden,  until  put  to  the  touchstone 
of  exigency  ; and  that  there  is  a caprice  of  for- 
tune, an  omnipotence  in  particular  accidents 
and  conjunctures  of  circumstances,  which  exalt 
us  as  heroes,  or  brand  us  as  madmen,  just  as 
they  are  for  or  against  us  ? 

Man,  Mr.  Publisher,  is  a strange,  weak,  in- 
consistent being : who  would  believe  Sir,  that 
in  this,  our  Augustan  age  of  liberality  and  re- 
finement, while  we  seem  so  justly  sensible  and 
jealous  of  our  rights  and  liberties,  and  animated 
with  such  indignation  against  the  very  memory 
of  those  who  would  have  subverted  them — that 
a certain  people  under  our  national  protection, 
should  complain,  not  against  our  monarch  and 
a few  favorite  advisers,  but  against  our  whole 
legislative  body,  for  similar  oppression,  and 
! almost  in  the  very  same  terms,  as  our  forefath- 
ers did  of  the  House  of  Stewart ! I will  not,  I 
cannot  enter  into  the  merits  of  the  cause,  but  I 
dare  say.  the  American  Congress,  in  1776,  will 
be  allowed  to  be  as  able  and  as  enlightened  a3 
the  English  Convention  was  in  1688;  and  that 
their  posterity  will  celebrate  the  centenary  of 
their  deliverance  from  us.  as  duly  and  sincerely 
as  we  do  ours  from  the  opsressive  measures  of 
the  wrong-headed  House  of  Stewart 

To  conclude,  Sir:  let  every  man  who  has  a 
tear  for  the  many  miseries  incident  to  humanity, 
feel  for  a family  as  illustrious  as  any  in  Europe, 
and  unfortunate  beyond  historic  precedent ; and 
let  every  Briton,  (and  particularly  every  Scots- 
man,) who  ever  looked  with  reverential  pity  on 
the  dotage  of  a parent,  cast  a veil  over  the  fatal 
mistakes  of  the  kings  of  his  forefathers.* 


No.  LX. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  17 th  Dec.  1788. 

My  dear,  honored  Friend, — 

Yours,  dated  Edinburgh,  which  I have  just 
read,  makes  me  very  unhappy.  “Almost 
blind,  and  wholly  deaf,”  are  melancholy  news 
of  human  nature  ; but  when  told  of  a much- 
loved and  honored  friena,  they  carry  misery  in 
the  sound.  Goodness  on  your  part,  and  grati- 
tude on  mine,  began  a tie,  w'hich  has  gradually 
and  strongly  entwisted  itself  among  the  dearest 
chords  of  my  bosom  , and  I tremble  at  the 
omens  of  your  late  and  present  ailing  habits 
and  shattered  health.  You  miscalculate  mat- 
ters widely,  when  you  forbid  my  waiting  on 
you,  lest  it  should  hurt  my  worldly  concerns. 
My  small  scale  of  farming  is  exceedingly  more 
simple  and  easy  than  what  you  have  lately  seen 
at  Moreham  Mains.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  the 

* This  letter  was  sent  to  the  publisher  of  some 
newspaper,  probably  the  publisher  of  the  Edinburgh 
j Evening  Courunt. 


LETTERS. 


heart  of  the  man,  and  the  fancy  of  the  poet,  are 
the  two  grand  considerations  lor  which  I live  : 
if  miry  ridges  and  dirty  dunghills  are  to  engross 
the  best  part  of  the  functions  of  my  soul  im- 
mortal, I had  better  been  a rook  or  a magpie  at 
once,  and  then  I should  not  have  been  plagued 
with  any  idea  superior  to  breaking  of  clods,  and 
picking  up  grubs:  not  to  mention  barn-door 
cocks  or  mallards,  creatures  with  which  I 
could  almost  exchange  lives  at  any  time — If 
you  continue  so  deaf,  1 am  afraid  a visit  will  be 
no  great  pleasure  to  either  of  us  ; but  if  I hear 
you  are  got  so  well  again  as  to  be  able  to  relish 
conversation,  look  you  to  it,  Madam,  for  I will 
make  my  threatenings  good.  I arn  to  be  at  the 
new-year-day  fair  of  Ayr,  and  by  all  that  is 
sacred  in  the  word  Friend ! I will  come  and  see 
you. 

+ * # * 

Your  meeting,  which  you  so  well  describe, 
with  your  old  school-fellow  and  friend,  was 
truly  interesting.  Out  upon  the  ways  of  the 
world  ! — They  spoil  these  “ social  offsprings  of 
the  heart.”  Two  veterans  of  the  ‘“men  of  the 
world”  would  have  met  with  little  more  heart- 
workings  than  two  old  hacks  worn  out  on  the 
road.  Apropos,  is  not  the  Scotch  phrase,  “ Auld 
lang  syne”  exceedingly  expressive  ? There  is 
an  old  song  and  tune  which  has  often  thriiled 
through  my  soul.  You  know  I am  an  enthusi- 
ast in  old  Scotch  songs:  I shall  give  you  the 
verses  on  the  other  sheet,  as  I suppose  Mr. 
Kerr  will  save  you  the  postage.* 

Light  be  the  turf  on  the  breast  of  the  Heaven- 
inspired  poet  who  composed  this  glorious  frag- 
ment ! There  is  more  of  the  fire  of  native  ge- 
nius in  it  than  half  a dozen  of  modern  English 
Bacchanalians.  Now  I am  on  my  hobby-horse, 
I cannot  help  inserting  two  other  stanzas  which 
please  me  mightily. t 


No.  LXI. 

TO  MISS  DAVIES, 

A young  lady  who  had  heard  he  had  been  making  a 
Ballad  on  her,  enclosing  that  Ballad. 

December,  1788. 

Madam, — 

I understand  my  very  worthy  neighbor,  Mr. 
Riddle,  has  informed  you  that  1 have  made  you 
the  subject  of  some  verses.  There  is  something 
so  provoking  in  the  idea  of  being  the  burden  of 
a ballad,  that  I do  not  think  Job  or  Moses, 
though  such  patterns  of  patience  and  meekness, 
could  have  resisted  the  curiosity  to  know  what 
that  ballad  was  : so  my  worthy  friend  has  done 
me  a mischief,  which.  I dare  say,  he  never  in- 
tended, and  reduced  me  to  the  unfortunate  al- 
ternative of  leaving  your  curiosity  ungratified, 
or  else  disgusting  you  with  foolish  verses,  the 
unfinished  production  of  a random  moment,  and 
never  meant  to  have  met  your  ear.  I have  heard 
or  read  somewhere  of  a gentleman,  who  had  some 
genius,  much  eccentricity,  and  very  considera- 
ble dexterity  with  his  pencil.  In  the  accidental 

* Here  follows  the  song  of  Auld  tang  syne,  as  print- 
ed in  the  poems.  E. 

t Here  followed  the  song,  My  Bonnie  Mary.  To- 
ems,  p.  27. 


251 

groupe  of  life  into  which  one  is  thrown,  wherever 
this  gentleman  met  with  a character  in  a more 
than  ordinary  degree  congenial  to  his  heart,  he 
used  to  steal  a sketch  of  the  face,  merely,  as  he 
said,  as  a nota  bene  to  point  out  the  agreeable 
recollection  to  his  memory.  What  this  gentle- 
man’s pencil  was  to  him,  is  my  muse  to  me : 
and  the  verses  I do  myself  the  honor  to  send 
you  are  a memento  exactly  of  the  same  kind 
that  he  indulged  in. 

It  may  be  more  owing  to  the  fastidiousness 
of  my  caprice,  than  the  delicacy  of  my  taste, 
but  I am  so  often  tired,  disgusted,  and  hurt, 
with  the  insipidity,  affectation,  and  pride  of 
mankind,  that  when  I meet  with  a person  “ after 
my  own  heart,”  I positively  leel  what  an  ortho- 
dox protestant  would  call  a species  of  idolatry, 
which  acts  on  my  fancy  like  inspiration  ; and  I 
can  no  more  desist  rhyming  on  the  impulse, 
than  an  Eolian  harp  can  refuse  its  tones  to  the 
streaming  air.  A distich  or  two  would  be  the 
consequence,  though  the  object  which  hit  my 
fancy  were  gray-bearded  age : but  where  my 
theme  is  youth  and  beauty,  a young  lady  whose 
personal  charms,  wit,  and  sentiment,  are  equal- 
ly striking  and  unaffected,  by  heavens  ! though 
I had  lived  threescore  years  a married  man, 
and  threescore  years  before  I was  a married 
man,  my  imagination  would  hallow-  ihe  very 
idea;  and  I am  truly  sorry  that  the  enclosed  stan- 
zas have  done  such  poor  justice  to  such  a sub- 
ject. 


No.  LXII. 

FROM  MR.  G.  BURNS. 

Mossgiel,  1st  Jan.  1789. 

Dear  Brother, — 

I have  just  finished  my  new-year’s-day  break- 
fast in  the  usual  form,  which  naturally  makes 
me  call  to  mind  the  days  of  former  years,  and 
the  society  in  wdiich  we  used  to  begin  them  : 
and  when  I look  at  our  family  vicissitudes, 
“ thro’  the  dark  postern  of  time  long  elapsed;.” 
I cannot  help  remarking  to  you,  my  dear  bro- 
ther, how-  good  the  God  of  Seasons  is  to  us, 
and  that,  however  some  clouds  may  seem  to 
lower  over  the  portion  of  time  before  us,  we 
have  great  reason  to  hope  that  all  will  turn  out 
well. 

Your  mother  and  sisters,  with  Robert  the 
second,  join  me  in  the  compliments  of  the  sea- 
son to  you  and  Mrs.  Burns,  and  beg  you  will 
remember  us  in  the  same  manner  to  William, 
the  first  time  you  see  him. 

I am,  dear  brother,  yours, 

GILBERT  BURNS. 

No.  LXIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  New-  Year-  Day  Morning. 

This,  dear  Madam,  is  a morning  of  wishes, 
and  would  to  Gon  that  I came  under  the  apos- 
tle James’s  description  ! — the  'prayer  of  a right- 
eous man  avail eth  much.  In  that  case,  Madam, 
you  should  welcome  in  a year  full  of  blessings: 
every  thing  that  obstructs  or  disturbs  tranquillity 


252 


LETTERS 


and  self-enjoyment,  should  be  removed,  and 
every  pleasure  that  frail  humanity  can  taste 
should  be  yours,  town  myself  so  little  a pres- 
byterian,  that  I approve  of  set  times  and  sea- 
sons of  more  than  ordinary  acts  of  devotion, 
for  breaking  in  on  that  habituated  routine  of 
life  and  thought  which  is  so  apt  to  reduce  our 
existence  to  a kind  of  instinct,  or  even  some- 
times, and  with  some  minds,  to  a state  very  lit- 
tle superior  to  mere  machinery. 

This  day,  the  first  Sunday  of  May,  a breezy 
blue-skyed  noon,  some  time  about  the  begin- 
ning, and  a hoary  morning  and  calm  sunny  day 
about  the  end  of  autumn  ; — these,  time  out  of 
mind,  have  been  with  me  a kind  of  holiday. 

* * * * 

I believe  I owe  this  to  that  glorious  paper  in 
the  Spectator,  “ The  Vision  of  Mirza  a piece 
that  struck  my  young  fancy  before  I was  capa- 
ble of  fixing  an  idea  to  a word  of  three  syllables. 
“ On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers,  I always 
keep  holy , after  having  washed  myself,  and  of- 
fered up  my  morning  devotions,  I ascended  the 
high  hill  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of 
the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.” 

We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  the 
substance  or  structure  of  our  souls,  so  cannot 
account  for  those  seeming  caprices  in  them,  that 
one  should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this 
thing,  or  struck  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a 
different  cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  impres- 
sion. I have  some  favorite  flowers  in  spring, 
among  which  are  the  mountain-daisy,  the  hare- 
bell, the  fox-glove,  the  wild-brier-rose,  the 
budding-birch,  and  the  hoary- hawthorn,  that  I 
view  and  hang  over  with  particular  delight.  I 
never  heard  the  loud  solitary  whistle  of  the 
curlew’  in  a summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing 
cadence  of  a troop  of  gray  plover  in  an  autum- 
nal morning,  without  feeling  an  elevation  of 
soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poetry. 
Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be 
owing.  Are  wre  a piece  of  machinery,  which, 
like  the  Eo'ian  harp,  passive,  takes  the  impres- 
sion of  the  passing  accident?  Or  do  these 
workings  argue  something  within  us  above  the 
trodden  clod?  I own  myself  partial  to  such 
proofs  of  ihose  awful  and  important  realities — a 
God  that  made  all  things — man’s  immaterial 
and  immortal  nature — and  a world  of  weal  or 
woe  beyond  death  and  the  grave. 

* * * * 

No.  LXIV. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  4 Ih  Jan.  1789. 
Sir, — 

As  often  as  I think  of  writing  to  you.  which 
has  been  three  or  four  times  every  week  these 
six  months,  it  gives  me  something  .so  like  the 
look  of  an  ordinary  sized  statue  offering  at  a 
conversation  with  the  Rhodian  colossus,  that 
my  mind  misgives  me,  and  the  affair  always 
miscarries  somewhere  between  purpose  and  re- 
solve. I have,  at  last,  got  some  business  with 
you,  and  business-letters  are  written  by  the 
style-book.  I say  my  business  is  with  you  Sir, 


for  you  never  had  any  with  me,  except  the  bu- 
siness that  benevolence  has  in  the  mansion  of 
poverty. 

The  character  and  employment  of  a poet  were 
formerly  my  pleasure,  but  are  now  my  pride.  I 
know  that  a very  great  deal  of  my  late  eclat  was 
owing  to  the  singularity  of  my  situation,  and 
the  honest  prejudice  of  Scotsmen  ; but  still,  as  I 
said  in  the  preface  to  my  first  edition,  I do  look 
upon  myself  as  having  some  pretensions  from 
Nature  to  the  poetic  character.  I have  not  a 
doubt  but  the  knack,  the  aptitude  to  learn  the 
Muses’  trade,  is  a gift  bestowed  by  Him,  “ who 
forms  the  secret  bias  of  the  soul — but  1 as 
firmly  believe,  that  excellence  in  the  profession  is 
the  fruit  of  industry,  labor,  attention,  and  pains. 
At  least  I am  resolved  to  try  my  doctrine  by 
the  test  of  experience.  Another  appearance 
from  the  press  I put  off  to  a very  distant  day,  a 
day  that  may  never  arrive — but  poesy  I am  de- 
termined to  prosecute  with  all  my  vigor.  Na- 
ture has  given  very  few,  if  any,  of  the  profes- 
sion, the  talents  of  shining  in  every  species  of 
composition.  I shall  try  (for  until  trial  it  is  im- 
possible to  know)  whether  she  has  qualified  me 
to  shine  in  any  one.  The  worst  of  it  is,  by  the 
time  one  has  finished  a piece,  it  has  been  so  of- 
ten viewed  and  reviewed  before  the  mental  eye 
that  one  loses,  in  a good  measure,  the  powers 
of  critical  discrimination.  Here  the  best  crite- 
rion I know  is  a friend — not  only  of  abilities  to 
judge,  but  with  good-nature  enough,  like  a pru- 
dent teacher  with  a young  learner,  to  praise, 
perhaps,  a little  more  than  is  exactly  just,  lest 
the  thin-skinned  animal  fall  into  that  most  de- 
plorable of  all  poetic  diseases — heartbreaking 
despondency  of  himself.  Dare  I,  Sir,  already 
immensely  indebted  to  your  goodness,  ask  the 
additional  obligation  of  your  being  that  friend 
to  me  ? I enclose  you  an  essay  of  mine  in  a 
walk  of  poesy  to  me  entirely  new  ; I mean  the 
epistle  addressed  to  R.  G.  Esq.  or  Robert  Gra- 
ham, of  Fintry,  Esq.  a gentleman  ol  uncommon 
worth,  to  whom  1 lie  under  very  great  obliga- 
tions. The  story  of  the  poem,  like  most  of  my 
poems,  is  connected  with  my  own  story  ; and 
to  give  you  the  one  I must  give  you  something 
of  the  other.  I cannot  boast  of — 

# * # * 

I believe  I shall,  in  whole.  100?.  copy-right 
included,  clear  about  400?.  some  lit  fie  odds  ; and 
even  part  of  this  depends  upon  what  the  gentle- 
man has  yet  to  settle  with  me.  I give  you  this 
information,  because  you  did  me  the  honor  to 
interest  yourself  much  in  my  welfare. 

* * * * 

To  give  the  rest  of  my  story  in  brief,  T have 
married  “ my  Jean,”  and  taken  a farm  : with 
the  first  step,  I have  every  day  more  and  more 
reason  to  be  satisfied  ; with  the  last,  it  is  rather 
the  reverse.  I have  a younger  brother  who  sup- 
ports my  aged  mother  ; another  still  younger 
brother  and  three  sisters,  in  a farm.  On  my 
last  return  from  Edinburgh,  it  cost  me  about 
180?.  to  save  them  from  ruin.  Not  that  I have 
lost  so  much — I only  interposed  between  my 
brother  and  his  impending  fate  by  the  loan  ofso 
much.  I give  myself  no  airs  on  this,  for  it  was 
mere  selfishness  on  my  part : I was  conscious 
that  the  wrong  scale  of  the  balance  was  pretty 
heavily  charged  ; and  I thought  that  throwing  a 
little  filial  piety,  and  fraternal  affection,  into  the 


LETTERS. 


253 


ecale  in  my  favor,  might  help  to  smooth  matters 
at  the  grand  reckoning.  There  is  still  one 
thing  would  make  my  circumstances  quite  easy. 
I have  an  excise- officer’s  commission,  and  I live 
in  the  midst  of  a country  division.  My  request 
to  Mr.  Graham,  who  is  one  of  the  commission- 
ers of  excise,  was,  if  in  his  power,  to  procure 
me  that  division.  If  I were  very  sanguine.  I 
might  hope  that  some  of  my  great  patrons  might 
procure  me  a treasury  warrant  for  supervisor, 
surveyor-general,  &c. 

* * * * 

Thus  secure  of  a livelihood,  “ to  thee,  sweet 
poetry,  delightful  maid  1”  I would  consecrate 
my  future  days. 


No.  LXV. 

TO  PROFESSOR  D.  STEWART. 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  20 th  Jan.  1789. 
SlF, — 

The  enclosed  sealed  packet  I sent  to  Edin- 
burgh a few  days  after  I had  the  happiness  of 
meeing  you  in  Ayrshire,  but  you  were  gone  for 
the  Continent.  I have  added  a few  more  of  my 
productions,  those  for  which  I am  indebted  to 
the  Nithsdale  Muses.  The  piece  inscribed  to 
R.  G.  Esq.  is  a copy  of  verses  I sent  Mr.  Gra- 
ham of  Fintry,  accompanying  a request  for  his 
assistance  in  a matter,  to  me,  of  very  great  mo- 
ment. To  that  gentleman  I am  already  doub- 
ly indebted,  for  deeds  of  kindness  of  serious  im- 
port to  my  dearest  interests,  done  in  a manner 
grateful  to  the  delicate  feelings  of  sensibility. 
This  poem  is  a species  of  composition  new  to 
me  ; but  I do  not  intend  it  shall  be  my  last  es- 
say of  the  kind,  as  you  will  see  by  the  “ Poet’s 
Progress.”  These  fragments,  if  my  design  suc- 
ceeds, arebutasmall  partofthe  intended  whole. 
I propose  it  shall  be  the  work  of  my  utmost  ex- 
ertions ripened  by  years : of  course  I do  not 
wish  it  much  known.  The  fragment,  begin- 
ning “ A little,  upright,  pert,  tart,”  &c.  I have 
not  shown  to  man  living,  till  now  I send  it  you. 
It  forms  the  postulata,  the  axioms,  the  defini- 
tion of  a character,  which  if  it  appear  at  all, 
shall  be  placed  in  a variety  of  lights.  This  par- 
ticular part  I send  you  merely  as  a sample  of  my 
hand  at  portrait-sketching  ; but  lest  idle  conjec- 
ture should  pretend  to  point  out  the  original, 
please  let  it  be  for  your  single,  sole  inspection. 

Need  I make  any  apology  for  this  trouble  to 
a gentleman  who  has  treated  me  with  such  mark- 
ed benevolence  and  peculiar  kindness  ; who  has 
entered  into  my  interests  with  so  much  zeal, 
and  on  whose  critical  decisions  I can  so  fully 
depend  ? A poet  as  I am  by  trade,  these  deci- 
sions to  me  are  of  the  last  consequence.  My 
late  transient  acquaintance  among  some  of  the 
mere  rank  and  file  of  greatness,  I resign  writh 
ease  ; but  to  the  distinguished  champions  of 
genius  and  learning,  I shall  be  ever  ambitious 
of  being  knowm.  The  native  genius  and  accu- 
rate discernment  in  Mr.  Stewart’s  critical  stric- 
tures ; the  justness  (iron  justice,  for  he  has  no 
bowels  of  compassion  for  a poor  poetic  sinner) 
of  Dr.  Gregory’s  remarks,  and  the  delicacy  of 


Professor  Dalzel’s  taste,  I shall  ever  revere.  I 
shall  be  in  Edinburgh  some  time  next  month. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  Sir, 

Your  highly  obliged, 

And  very  humble  servant, 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

No.  LXVI. 

TO  BISHOP  GEDDES. 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  3 d Feb.  1789. 

Venerable  Father, — 

As  I am  conscious,  that  wherever  I am,  you 
do  me  the  honor  to  interest  yourself  in  my  wel- 
fare, it  gives  me  pleasure  to  inform  you  that  I 
am  here  at  last,  stationary  in  the  serious  busi- 
ness of  life,  and  have  now  not  only  the  retired 
leisure,  but  the  hearty  inclination  to  attend  to 
those  great  and  important  questions — w'hat  I 
am  ? where  lam?  and  for  what  I am  destined  ? 

In  that  first  concern,  the  conduct  of  tho  man, 
there  was  ever  but  one  side  on  which  I was  ha- 
bitually blameable,  and  there  I have  secured 
myself  in  the  way  pointed  out  by  Nature  and 
Nature’s  God.  I was  sensible  that,  to  so  help- 
less a creature  as  a poor  poet,  a wife  and  family 
were  encumbrances,  which  a species  of  pru- 
dence would  bid  him  shun  ; but  when  the  alter- 
native was,  being  at  eternal  warfare  w'ith  my- 
self on  account  of  habitual  foliies,  to  give  them 
no  worse  name,  which  no  general  example,  no 
licentious  wit,  no  sophistical  infidelity,  would 
to  me  ever  justify,  I must  have  been  a fool  to 
have  hesitated,  and  a madman  to  have  made  an- 
other choice. 

* * * * 

In  the  affair  of  a livelihood,  I think  myself 
tolerably  secure  : I have  good  hopes  of  my  farm  ; 
but  should  they  fail,  I have  an  excise  commis- 
sion, which  on  my  simple  petition,  will  at  any 
time  procure  me  bread.  There  is  a certain  stig- 
ma affixed  to  the  character  of  an  excise  officer, 
but  I do  not  intend  to  borrow  honor  from  any 
profession  ; and  though  the  salary  be  compara- 
tively small,  it  is  great  to  anything  that  the  first 
twenty-five  years  of  my  life  taught  me  to  ex- 
pect. 

* * * * 

Thus,  with  a rational  aim,  and  method  in  life, 
you  may  easily  guess,  my  reverend  and  much 
honored  friend,  that  my  characteristical  trade  is 
not  forgotten.  I am,  if  possible,  more  than  ever 
an  enthusiast  to  the  Muses.  I am  determined 
to  study  man,  and  nature,  and  in  that  view 
incessantly  ; and  to  try  if  the  ripening  and  cor- 
rections of  years  can  enable  me  to  produce  some- 
thing worth  preserving. 

You  will  see  in  your  book,  which  I beg  your 
pardon  for  detaining  so  long,  that  I have  been 
tuning  my  lyre  on  the  banks  of  theNith.  Some 
large  poetic  plans  that  are  floating  in  my  imagi- 
nation, or  partly  put  in  execution,  I shall  im- 
part to  you  w hen  I have  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing with  you  : which  if  you  are  then  in  Edin- 
burgh, I shall  have  about  the  beginning  of 
March. 

That  acquaintance,  worthy  Sir,  w’ith  which 
you  were  pleased  to  honor  me,  you  must  still  al- 
low me  to  challenge  ; for  with  whatever  uncon- 


254 


LETTERS. 


cern  I give  up  my  transient  connexion  with  the 
merely  great,  I cannot  lose  the  patronizing  no- 
tice of  the  learned  and  good,  without  the  bitter- 
est regret. 


No.  LXVII. 

FROM  THE  REV.  P.  OARFRAE. 

2 d Jan.  1789. 

Sir, — 

If  you  have  lately  seen  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of 
Dunlop,  you  have  certainly  heard  of  the  author 
of  the  verses  which  accompany  this  letter.  He 
was  a man  highly  respectable  for  every  accom- 
plishment and  virtue  which  adorns  the  charac- 
ter of  a man  or  a Christian.  To  a great  degree 
of  literature,  of  taste,  and  poetic  genius,  was  ad- 
ded an  invincible  modesty  of  temper,  which  pre- 
vented in  a great  degree,  his  figuring  in  life,  and 
confined  the  perfect  knowledge  of  his  character 
and  talents  to  the  small  circle  of  his  chosen 
friends.  He  was  untimely  taken  from  us,  a few 
weeks  ago,  by  an  inflammatory  fever,  in  the 
prime  of  life — beloved  by  all  who  enjoyed  his 
acquaintance,  and  lamented  by  all  who  have  any 
regard  for  virtue  and  genius.  There  is  a wo 
pronounced  in  Scripture  against  the  person, 
whom  all  men  speak  well  of ; if  ever  that  wo 
fell  upon  the  head  of  mortal  man,  it  fell  upon 
him.  He  has  left  behind  him  a considerable 
number  of  compositions,  chiefly  poetical,  suffi- 
cient, I imagine,  to  make  a large  octavo  vol- 
ume. In  particular,  two  complete  and  regular 
tragedies,  a farce  of  three  acts  and  some  smal- 
ler poems  on  different  subjects.  It  falls  to  my 
share,  who  have  lived  in  the  most  intimate  and 
uninterrupted  friendship  with  him  from  my 
youth  upwards,  to  transmit  to  you  the  verses  he 
wrote  on  the  publication  of  your  incomparable 
poems.  It  is  probable  they  were  his  last,  as 
they  were  found  in  his  scrutoire,  folded  up  with 
the  form  of  a letter  addressed  to  you,  and,  I im- 
agine were  only  prevented  from  being  sent  by 
himself,  by  that  melancholy  dispensation  which 
we  still  bemoan.  The  verses  themselves  1 will 
not  pretend  to  criticise  when  writing  to  a gen- 
tleman whom  I consider  as  entirely  qualified  to 
judge  of  their  merit.  They  are  the  only  verses 
he  seems  to  have  attempted  in  the  Scottish 
style  ; and  I hesitate  not  to  say,  in  general,  that 
they  will  bring  no  dishonor  on  the  Scottish  muse; 
— and  allow  me  to  add,  that,  if  it  is  your  opin- 
ion they  are  not  unworthy  of  the  author,  and 
will  be  no  discredit  to  you,  it  is  the  inclination 
of  Mr.  Mylne’s  friends  that  they  should  be 
immediately  published  in  some  periodical  work 
to  give  the  world  a specimen  of  what  may  be 
expected  from  his  performances  in  the  poetic 
line,  which,  perhaps,  will  be  afterwards  pub- 
lished for  the  advantage  of  his  family. 

* * * * 

I must  beg  the  favor  of  a letter  from  you,  ac- 
knowledging the  receipt  of  this;  and  to  be  allow- 
ed to  subscribe  myself  with  great  regard, 

Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

P.  CARFRAE. 


No.  LX VIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  4 th  March , 1789. 

Here  am  I,  my  honored  friend,  returned  safe 
from  the  capital.  To  a man  who  has  a home, 
however  humble  or  remote — if  that  home  is  like 
mine,  the  scene  of  domestic  comfort — the  bustle 
of  Edinburgh  will  soon  be  a business  of  sicken- 
ing disgust. 

“ Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I hate  you.’? 

When  I must  skulk  into  a corner,  lest  the 
rattling  equipage  of  some  gaping  blockhead 
should  mangle  me  in  the  mire,  I am  tempted  to 
exclaim — “ What  merits  has  he  had,  or  what 
demerit  have  I had,  in  some  state  of  pre-exis- 
tence, that  he  is  ushered  into  this  state  of  being 
with  the  sceptre  of  rule,  and  the  key  of  riches 
in  his  puny  fist,  and  I am  kicked  into  the  world 
the  sport  of  folly,  or  the  victim  of  pride  ?”  I 
have  read  somewhere  of  a monarch  (in  Spain  I 
think  it  was,)  who  was  so  much  out  of  humor 
with  the  Ptolemean  system  of  astronomy,  that 
he  said,  had  he  been  of  the  Creator’s  council, 
he  could  have  saved  him  a great  deal  of  labor 
and  absurdity.  I will  not  defend  this  blasphe- 
mous speech  ; but  often,  as  I have  glided  with 
humble  stealth  through  the  pomp  of  Prince’s 
street,  it  has  suggested  itself  to  me,  as  an  im- 
provement on  the  present  human  figure,  that  a 
man,  in  proportion  to  his  own  conceit  of  his  con- 
sequence in  the  world,  could  have  pushed  out 
the  longitude  of  his  common  size,  as  a snail 
pushes  out  his  horns,  or  as  we  draw  out  a per- 
spective. This  trifling  alteration,  not  to  men- 
tion the  prodigious  saving  it  would  be  in  the 
tear  and  wear  of  the  neck  and  limb-sinews  of 
many  of  his  majesty’s  liege  subjects,  in  the  way 
of  tossing  the  head  and  tiptoe-strutting,  would 
evidently  turn  out  a vast  advantage,  in  enabling 
us  at  once  to  adjust  the  ceremonials  in  making 
a bow,  or  making  way  to  a great  man.  and  that 
too  within  a second  of  the  precise  spherical  an- 
gle of  reverence,  or  an  inch  of  the  particular 
point  of  respectful  distance,  which  the  impor- 
tant creature  itself  requires ; as  a measuring- 
glance  at  its  towering  altitude  would  determine 
the  affair  like  instinct. 

You  are  right,  Madam,  in  your  idea  of  poor 
Mylne’s  poem,  which  he  has  addressed  to  me. 
The  piece  has  a good  deal  of  merit,  but  it  has 
one  great  fault — it  is,  by  far,  too  long.  Besides, 
my  success  has  encouraged  such  a shoal  of  ill- 
spawned  monsters  to  crawl  into  public  notice, 
under  the  title  of  Scottish  Poets,  that  the  very 
term  Scottish  Poetry  borders  on  the  burlesque. 
When  I write  to  Mr.  Carfrae,  I shall  advise  him 
rather  to  try  one  of  his  deceased  friend’s  English 
pieces.  I am  prodigiously  hurried  with  my 
own  matters,  else  I would  have  requested  a pe- 
rusal of  all  Mylne’s  poetic  performances  ; and 
would  have  offered  his  friends  my  assistance  in 
either  selecting  or  correcting  what  would  be 
proper  for  the  press.  What  it  is  that  occupies 
me  so  much,  and  perhaps  a little  oppresses  my 
present  spirits,  shall  fill  up  a paragraph  in  some 
future  letter.  In  the  mean  time,  allow  me  to 
close  this  epistle  with  a few  lines  done  by  a 
friend  of  mine  * * * *.  I give  you  them,  that, 
as  you  have  seer  the  original,  you  may  guess 


LETTERS. 


255 


whether  one  or  two  alterations  I have  ventured 
to  make  in  them,  be  any  real  improvement. 

Like  the  fair  plant  that  from  our  touch  withdraws, 
Shrink,  mildly  fearful,  even  from  applause, 
ile  all  a mother’s  fondest  hope  can  dream, 

And  all  you  are.  my  charming  * * * *,  seem, 
Straight  as  the  fox-glove,  ere  her  bells  disclose, 
Mild  as  the  maiden-blushing  hawthorn  blows, 

Fair  as  the  fairest  of  each  lovely  kind, 

Your  form  shall  be  the  image  of  your  mind  ; 

Your  manners  shall  so  true  your  soul  express, 
That  all  shall  long  to  know  the  worth  they  guess  : 
Congenial  hearts  shall  greet  with  kindred  love, 
And  even  sick’ning  envy  must  approve.* 


No.  LX1X. 

TO  THE  REV.  P.  CARFRAE. 

1789. 

Reverend  Sir, — 

I do  not  recollect  that  I have  ever  felt  a se- 
verer pang  of  shame,  than  on  looking  at  the 
date  of  your  obliging  letter  which  accompanied 
Mr.  Mylne’s  poem. 

# * * # 

I am  much  to  blame  ; the  honor  Mr.  Mylne  has 
done  me,  greatly  enhanced  in  its  value  by  the 
endearing  though  melancholy  circumstance  of 
its  being  the  last  production  of  his  muse,  de- 
served a better  return. 

I have,  as  you  hint,  thought  of  sending  a 
copy  of  the  poem  to  some  periodical  publica- 
tion; but,  on  second  thoughts,  I am  afraid  that, 
in  the  present  case,  it  would  be  an  improper 
step.  My  success,  perhaps  as  much  accidental 
as  merited,  has  brought  an  inundation  of  non- 
sense under  the  name  of  Scottish  poetry.  Sub- 
scription bills  for  Scottish  poems  have  so  dun- 
ned, and  daily  do  dun,  the  public,  that  the  very 
name  is  in  danger  of  contempt.  For  these  rea- 
sons, if  publishing  any  of  Mr.  Mylne’s  poems 
in  a magazine,  &c.  be  at  all  prudent,  in  my 
opinion,  it  certainly  should  not  be  a Scottish 
poem.  The  profits  of  the  labors  of  a man  of 
genius  are,  I hope,  as  honorable  as  any  profits 
whatever;  and  Mr.  Mylne’s  relations  are  most 
justly  entitled  to  that  honest  harvest  which  fate 
has  denied  himself  to  reap.  But  let  the  friends  of 
Mr.  Mylne’s  fame  (among  whom  I crave  the  hon- 
or of  ranking  myself  )always  keep  in  eye  his  re- 
spectability as  a man  and  as  a poet,  and  take  no 
measure  that,  before  the  world  knows  any 
thing  about  him,  would  risk  his  name  and  char- 
acter being  classed  with  the  fools  of  the  times. 

I have,  Sir,  some  experience  of  publishing, 
and  the  way  in  which  I would  proceed  with 
Mr.  Mylne’s  poems  is  this:  I would  publish  in 
two  or  three  English  and  Scottish  public  papers, 
any  one  of  his  English  poems  which  should,  by 
private  judges,  be  thought  the  most  excellent, 
and  mention  it,  at  the  same  time,  as  one  of  the 
productions  of  a Lothian  farmer,  of  respectable 
character,  lately  deceased,  whose  poems  his 
friends  had  it  in  idea  to  publish  soon,  by  sub- 
scription, for  the  sake  of  his  numerous  family  : 
— not  in  pity  to  that  family,  but  in  justice  to 
what  his  friends  think  the  poetic  merits  of  the 
deceased  ; and  to  secure,  in  the  most  effectual 
manner,  to  those  tender  connections,  whose 
right  it  is,  the  pecuniary  reward  of  those  merits. 

* These  beautiful  lines,  we  have  reason  to  believe 
are  the  production  of  the  lady  to  whom  this  letter  is 
addressed. — E. 


No.  LXX. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Ellisland,  23 d March,  1789. 

Sir, — 

The  gentleman  who  will  deliver  you  this  is  a 
Mr.  Nielson,  a worthy  clergyman  in  my  neigh- 
borhood, and  a very  particular  acquaintance  of 
mine.  As  1 have  troubled  him  with  this  pack- 
et, I must  turn  him  over  to  your  goodness,  to 
recompense  him  for  it  in  a way  in  which  he 
much  needs  your  assistance,  and  where  you  can 
effectually  serve  him  : — Mr.  Nielson  is  on  his 
way  for  France, — to  wait  on  his  Grace  of 
Queensberry,  on  some  little  business  of  a good 
deal  of  importance  to  him,  and  he  wishes  for 
your  instructions  respecting  the  most  eligible 
mode  of  traveling,  &e.  for  him,  when  he  has 
crossed  the  channel.  I should  not  have  dared 
to  take  this  liberty  with  you,  but  that  I am 
told,  by  those  who  have  the  honor  of  your  per- 
sonal acquaintance,  that  to  be  a poor  honest 
Scotchman,  is  a letter  of  recommendation  to 
you,  and  that  to  have  it  in  your  power  to  serve 
such  a character  gives  you  much  pleasure. 

# * * * 

The  enclosed  ode  is  a compliment  to  the  mem- 
ory of  the  late  Mrs.  *****,  of  ********.  You, 
probably,  knew  her  personally,  an  honor  of 
which  I cannot  boa9t ; but  I spent  my  early 
years  in  her  neighborhood,  and  among  her  ser- 
vants and  tenants,  I know  that  she  was  detest- 
ed with  the  most  heartfelt  cordiality.  Howev- 
er, in  the  particular  part  of  her  conduct  which 
roused  my  poetic  wrath,  she  was  much  less 
blameable.  In  January  last,  on  my  road  to 
Ayrshire,  I had  put  up  at  Balie  Whigham’s  in 
Sanquhar,  the  only  tolerable  inn  in  the  place. 
The  frost  was  keen,  and  the  grim  evening  and 
howling  wind  were  ushering  in  a night  of  snow 
and  drift.  My  horse  and  I were  both  much  fa- 
tigued with  the  labors  of  the  day ; and  just  as 
my  friend  the  Balie  and  I were  bidding  defiance 
to  the  storm,  over  a smoking  bow!,  in  wheels 
the  funeral  pageantry  of  the  late  great  Mrs.  *** 
***,  and  poor  I am  forced  to  brave  all  the  hor- 
rors of  the  tempestuous  night,  and  jade  my 
horse,  my  young  favorite  horse,  whom  I had 
just  christened  Pegasus,  twelve  miles  farther 
on,  through  the  wildest  moors  and  hills  of  Ayr- 
shire, to  New  Cumnock,  the  next  inn.  The 
powers  of  poesy  and  prose  sink  under  me, 
when  I would  describe  what  I felt.  Suffice  it 
to  say,  that  when  a good  fire  at  New  Cumnock, 
had  so  far  recovered  my  frozen  sinews,  I sat 
down  and  wrote  the  enclosed  ode.* 

I was  at  Edinburgh  lately,  and  settled  finally 
with  Mr.  Creech  ; and  I must  own,  that,  at 
last,  he  has  been  amicable  and  fair  with  me. 


No.  LXXI. 

TO  MR.  HILL. 

Ellisland,  2 d April,  1789. 

I will  make  no  excuses,  my  dear  Bibliopolus 
(God  forgive  me  for  murdering  language,)  that 
I have  sat  down  to  write  you  on  this  vile  paper. 
* * * * 

It  is  economy,  Sir;  it  is  that  cardinal  virtue, 
*Thc  Ode  enclosed  is  that  printed  in  Poems,  p.  46,  & 


256 


LETTERS. 


prudence ; so  I beg  you  will  sit  down,  and 
either  compose  or  borrow  a panegyric.  If  you 
are  going  to  borrow,  apply  to 

* * * * 

to  compose,  or  rather  to  compound  something 
very  clever  on  my  remarkable  frugality ; that  1 
write  to  one  of  my  most  esteemed  friends  on 
this  wretched  paper,  which  was  originally  in- 
tended for  the  venal  fist  of  some  drunken  ex- 
ciseman, to  take  dirty  notes  in  a miserable  vault 
of  an  ale-cellar. 

O Frugality  ! thou  mother  of  ten  thousand 
blessings — thou  cook  of  fat  beef  and  dainty 
greens — thou  manufacturer  of  warm  Shetland 
hose,  and  comfortable  surtouts ! — thou  old 
housewife,  darning  thy  decayed  stockings  with 
thy  ancient  spectacles  on  thy  aged  nose! — lead 
me,  hand  me,  in  thy  clutching,  palsied  fist,  up 
those  heights,  and  through  those  thickets,  hith- 
erto inaccessible,  and  impervious  to  my  anx- 
ious, weary  feet ; — not  those  Parnassian  crags, 
bleak  and  barren,  where  the  hungry  worshippers 
of  fame  are  breathless,  clambering,  hanging 
between  heaven  and  hell ; but  those  glittering 
cliffs  of  Potosi,  where  the  all-sufficient,  all- 
powerful  deity,  Wealth,  holds  his  immediate 
court  of  joys  and  pleasures  ; where  the  sunny 
exposure  of  plenty,  and  the  hot  walls  of  profu- 
sion, produce  those  blissful  fruits  of  luxury,  exo- 
tics in  this  world,  and  natives  of  Paradise  ! — 
Thou  withered  sybil,  my  sage  conductress, 
usher  me  into  the  refulgent,  adored  presence  ! — 
The  power,  splendid  and  potent  as  he  now  is, 
was  once  the  puling  nursling  of  thy  faithful 
care  and  tender  arms  ! Call  me  thy  son,  thy 
cousin,  thy  kinsman  or  favorite,  and  abjure  the 
god,  by  the  scenes  of  his  infant  years,  no  longer 
to  repulse  me  as  a stranger,  or  an  alien,  but  to 
favor  me  with  his  peculiar  countenance  and  pro- 
tection ! He  daily  bestows  his  greatest  kindness- 
es on  the  undeserving  and  the  worthless — assure 
him  that  I bring  ample  documents  of  meritori- 
ous demerits  ! Pledge  yourself  for  me,  that  for 
the  glorious  cause  of  Lucre  I will  do  anything 
— be  anything — but  the  horse-leech  of  private 
oppression  or  the  vulture  of  public  robbery  ! 

* * * * 

But  to  descend  from  heroics, 

* * * * 

X want  a Shakspeare ; I want  likewise  an  En- 
lish  Dictionary — Johnson’s  I suppose  is  best, 
n these  and  all  my  prose  commissions,  the 
cheapest  is  always  the  best  for  me.  There  is  a 
email  .debt  of  honor  that  I owe  Mr.  Robert 
Cleghorn,  in  Saughton  Mills,  my  worthy  friend 
end  your  well-wisher.  Please  give  him,  and 
urge  him  to  take  it,  the  first  time  you  see  him, 
ten  shillings  worth  of  any  thing  you  have  to  sell 
and  place  it  to  my  account. 

The  library  scheme  that  J mentioned  to  you 
is  already  begun,  under  the  direction  of  Captain 
Riddel.  There  is  another  in  emulation  of  it  go- 
ing on  at  Closeburn,  under  the  auspices  of  Mr. 
Monteith  of  Closeburn,  which  will  be  on  a great- 
er scale  than  ours.  Capt.  R.  gave  his  infant 
society  a great  many  of  his  old  books,  else  I had 
written  you  on  that  subject ; but  one  of  thes$ 
days  I shall  trouble  you  with  a communication 
to r “The  Monkland  Friendly  Society;” — a 


copy  of  The  S-pectator , Mirror,  and  Lounger  ; 
Man  of  Feeling,  Man  of  the  World,  Guth- 
rie's Geographical  Grammar,  with  some  reli- 
gious pieces,  will  likewise  be  our  first  order. 

When  I grow  richer  I will  write  to  you  on 
gilt  post,  to  make  amends  for  this  sheet.  At 
present  every  guinea  has  a five  guinea  errand 
with, 

My  dear  Sir, 

Your  faithful,  poor,  but  honest  friend. 

R.  B. 

No.  LXXII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  4<A  April,  1789. 

I no  sooner  hit  on  any  poetic  plan  or  fancy, 
but  I wish  to  send  it  to  you : and  if  knowing 
and  reading  these  give  half  the  pleasure  to  you, 
that  communicating  them  to  you  gives  to  me,  I 
am  satisfied. 

* * * * 

I have  a poetic  whim  in  my  head,  which  I at 
present  dedicate,  or  rather  inscribe,  to  the  Right 
Hon.  C.  J.  Fox:  but  how  long  that  fancy  may 
hold,  I cannot  say.  A few  of  the  first  lines  I 
have  just  rough  sketched,  as  follows.* 

* # * * 

On  the  20th  current  I hope  to  have  the  honor 
of  assuring  you,  in  person,  how  sincerely  I am 

* * * * 


No.  LXXIII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  4 th  May,  1789. 

My  Dear  Sir, — 

Your  duty-free  favor  of  the  26th  April  I re- 
ceived two  days  ago  ; I will  not  say  I perused 
it  with  pleasure  : that  is  the  cold  compliment 
of  ceremony  ; I perused  it,  Sir,  with  delicious 
satisfaction — in  short,  it  is  such  a letter,  that  not 
you  nor  your  friend,  but  the  legislature,  by  ex- 
press proviso  in  their  postage-laws,  should  frank. 
A letter  informed  with  the  soul  of  friendship  is 
such  an  honor  to  human  nature  that  they  should 
order  it  free  ingress  and  egress  to  and  from  their 
bags  and  mails,  as  an  encouragement  and  mark 
of  distinction  to  supereminent  virtue. 

I have  just  put  the  last  hand  to  a little  poem 
which  I think  will  be  something  to  your  taste. 
One  morning  lately  as  I was  out  pretty  early  in 
the  fields  sowing  some  grass  seeds,  I heard  the 
burst  of  a shot  from  a neighboring  plantation, 
and  presently  a poor  little  wounded  hare  came 
crippling  by  me.  You  will  guess  my  indigna- 
tion at  the  inhuman  fellow  who  could  shoot  a 
hare  at  this  season,  when  they  all  of  them  have 
young  ones.  Indeed  there  is  something  in  that 
business  of  destroying,  for  our  sport,  individu- 
als in  the  animal  creation  that  do  not  injure  us 
materially,  which  I could  never  reconcile  to  my 
ideas  of  virtue. 

* Here  was  copied  the  Fragment  inscribed  to  C.  J. 
Fox.  See  Pocius  p.  60. 


LETTERS. 


257 


On  seeing  a Fellow  wound  a Hare  with  a Shot, 
April,  1789. 

Inhuman  man  ! curse  on  thy  barb’rous  art, 

And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye  : 

May  never  pity  sooth  thee  w.th  a sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart ! 

Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field, 

The  bitter  little  that  oflife  remains  : 

No  mure  the  thickening  brakes  or  verdant  plains 
To  thee  a home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  innocent,  some  wonted  form, 

That  wonted  form,  alas  1 thy  dying  bed. 

The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o’er  thy  head, 
The  cold  earth  with  thy  blood-stained  bosom  warm. 

Perhaps  a mother’s  anguish  adds  its  wo  : 

The  playful  pair  crowd  fondly  by  thy  side; 

Ah ! helpless  nurslings,  who  will  now  provide 
That  life  a mother  only  can  bestow. 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 

I’ll  miss  thee  sporting  o’er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  ruthless  wretch  and  mourn  thy  hap- 
less fate. 

Let  me  know  how  you  like  my  poem.  I am 
doubtful  whether  it  would  not  be  an  improve- 
ment to  keep  out  the  last  stanza  but  one  alto- 
gether. 

C is  a glorious  production  of  the  Author 

of  man.  You,  he,  and  the  noble  Colonel  of  the 
C F are  to  me 

“ Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  which  warm  my  breast.” 

1 have  a good  mind  to  make  verses  on  you  all, 
to  the  tune  of  “ Three  guid fellows  ay ont  the 
glen." 


No.  LXXIV. 

The  poem  in  the  preceding  letter  had  also  beenspnt 
by  our  Bard  to  Dr.  Gregory,  for  his  criticism.  The 
following  is  that  gentleman’s  reply. 

FROM  DR.  GREGORY. 

Edinburgh,  2 d June,  1787. 

Dear  Sir, — 

I take  the  first  leisure  hour  I could  command, 
to  thank  you  for  your  letter,  and  the  copy  of 
verses  enclosed  in  it.  As  there  is  real  poetic 
merit,  I mean  both  fancy  and  tenderness,  and 
some  happy  expressions  in  them,  I think  they 
well  deserve  that  you  should  revise  them  care- 
fully and  polish  them  to  the  utmost.  This  I am 
sure  you  can  do  if  you  please,  for  you  have  great 
command  both  of  expression  and  of  rhymes  : 
and  you  may  judge  from  the  two  last  pieces  of 
Mrs.  Hunter’s  poetry,  that  I gave  you,  how 
much  correctness  and  high  polish  enhance  the 
value  of  such  compositions.  As  you  desire  it, 
I shall,  with  great  freedom  give  you  my  most 
rigorous  criticisms  on  your  verses.  I wish  you 
would  give  me  another  edition  of  them,  much 
amended,  and  I will  send  it  to  Mrs.  Hunter, 
who  I am  sure  will  have  much  pleasure  in  read- 
ing it.  Pray  give  me  likewise  for  myself,  and 
her  too,  a copy  (as  much  amended  as  you  please) 
of  the  Water  Fowl  on  Loch  Turit. 

The  Wounded  Hare  is  a pretty  good  subject; 
but  the  measure  or  stanza  you  have  chosen  for 
it,  is  not  a good  one  ; it  does  not  flow  well  ; and 
the  rhyme  of  the  fourth  line  is  almost  lost  by  its 


distance  from  the  first,  and  the  two  interposed, 
close  rhymes.  If  I were  you,  I would  put  it  in- 
to a different  stanza  yet. 

Stanza  1 . The  execrations  in  the  first  two  lines 
are  too  strong  or  coarse ; but  they  may  pass. 
“ Murder-aiming”  is  a bad  compound  epithet, 
and  not  very  intelligible.  “ Blood  stained,”  in 
stanza  iii.  line  4.  has  the  same  fault : Bleeding 
bosom  is  infinitely  better.  You  have  accus- 
tomed yourself  to  such  epithets  and  have  no  no- 
tion how  stiff’  and  quaint  they  appear  to  others, 
and  how  incongruous  with  poetic  fancy  and  ten- 
der sentiments.  Suppose  Pope  had  written, 
“ Why  that  blood-stained  bosom  gored,”  how 
would  you  have  liked  it  ? Form  is  neither  a 
poetic,  nor  a dignified,  nor  a plain  common 
word  ; it  is  a mere  sportsman’s  word  : unsuita- 
ble to  pathetic  or  serious  poetry. 

“ Mangled”  is  a coarse  word.  “ Innocent,” 
in  this  sense,  is  a nursery  word,  but  both  may 
pass. 

Stanza  4.  “ Who  will  now  provide  that  life 

a mother  only  can  bestow  l"  will  not  do  at  all : 
it  is  not  grammar — it  is  not  intelligible.  Do 
you  mean,  “ provide  for  that  life  which  the  moth- 
er had  bestowed  and  used  to  provide  for  ?” 

There  was  a ridiculous  slip  of  the  pen,  “'Feel- 
ing” (I  suppose)  for  “ Fellow,”  in  the  title  of 
your  copy  of  verses  ; but  even  fellow  would  be 
wrong  ; it  is  but  a colloquial  and  vulgar  word, 
unsuitable  to  your  sentiments.  “ Shot”  is  im- 
proper too. — On  seeing  a person  (or  a sportsman) 
wound  a hare  ; it  is  needless  to  add  with  what 
weapon  ; but  if  you  think  otherwise,  you  should 
say,  with  a fowling  piece. 

Let  me  see  you  when  you  come  to  town,  and 
I will  show  you  some  more  of  Mrs.  Hunter’s 
poems.* 


No.  LXXV. 

TO  MR.  M'AULEY,  OF  DUMBAR- 
TON. 

4th  June,  1789. 

Dear  Sir, — 

Though  I am  not  without  my  fears  respect- 
ing my  fate,  at  that  grand,  universal  inquest  of 
right  and  wrong,  commonly  called  The  Last 
Day,  yet  I trust  there  is  one  sin,  which  that 
arch  vagabond,  Satan,  who  I understand  is  to 
be  king’s  evidence,  cannot  throw  in  my  teeth,  I 
mean  ingratitude.  There  is  a certain  pretty 
large  quantum  of  kindness,  for  which  I remain 
and  from  inability,  I fear  must  still  remain  your 
debtor  ; but  though  unable  to  repay  the  debt, 
I assure  you,  Sir,  I shall  ever  warmly  remem- 
ber the  obligation.  It  gives  me  the  sincerest 
pleasure  to  hear,  by  my  old  acquaintance,  Mr. 
Kennedy,  that  you  are,  in  immortal  Allan’s  lan- 

* It  must  be  admitted,  that  this  criticism  is  not  more 
distinguished  by  its  good  sense  than  by  its  freedom 
from  ceremony.  It  is  impossibie  not  io  smile  at  the 
manner  in  which  the  poet  may  be  supposed  to  have 
received  it.  In  fact  it  appears,  as  the  sailors  say,  to 
have  thrown  him  quite  aback.  In  a letter  which  he 

wrote  soon  after,  lie  says,  “Dr  G is  a good  man, 

but  he  crucifies  me.”— And  again,  “ I believe  in  the 
iron  justice  of  Dr  G but  like  the  devils,  “ I be- 

lieve and  tremble.”  However  he  profiled  by  these 
criticisms,  as  the  reader  will  find  by  comparing  the 
first  edition  of  this  piece  with  that  published  in  p.  51 
1 of  the  Poems. 


258 


LETTERS. 


guage,  “ Hale  and  weel,  and  living;”  and  that 
your  charming  family  are  well,  and  promising 
to  be  an  amiable  and  respectable  addition  to  the 
company  of  performers,  whom  the  great  Mana- 
ger of  the  drama  of  Man  is  bringing  into  action 
lor  the  succeeding  age. 

With  respect  to  my  welfare,  a subject  in  which 
you  once  warmly  and  effectively  interested 
yourself,  I am  here  in  my  old  way,  holding  my 
plough,  marking  the  growth  of  my  corn,  or  the 
health  of  my  dairy  ; and  at  times  sauntering  by 
the  delightful  windings  of  the  Nith,  on  the  mar- 
gin of  which  1 have  built  my  humble  domicile, 
praying  for  seasonable  weather,  or  holding  an 
intrigue  with  the  muses,  the  only  gypsies  with 
whom  I have  now  any  intercourse.  As  I am 
entered  into  the  holy  state  of  matrimony,  I trust 
my  face  is  turned  completely  Zion- ward  ; and  as 
it  is  a rule  with  all  honest  fellows  to  repeat  no 
grievances,  I hope  that  the  little  poetic  licen- 
ses of  former  days  will  of  course  fall  under  the 
oblivious  influence  of  some  good-natured  stat- 
ute of  celestial  proscription.  In  my  family 
devotion,  which,  like  a good  presbyterfan,  I 
occasionally  give  to  my  household  folks  ‘I  am 
extremely  fond  of  the  psalm,  “ Let  not  the  er- 
rors of  my  youth,1’  &c.  and  that  other,  “ Lo, 
children  are  God’s  heritage,”  &c.;  in  which 
last,  Mrs.  Burns  who,  by  the  by,  has  a glori- 
ous “ wood-note  wild”  at  either  old  song  or 
psalmody,  joins  me  with  the  pathos  of  Handel’s 
Messiah. 

* * * * 


No.  LXXVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  21st  June,  1789. 

Dear  Madam, — 

Will  you  take  the  effusions,  the  miserable  ef- 
fusions, of  low  spirits,  just  as  they  flow  from 
their  bitter  spring  ? I know  not  of  any  particu- 
lar cause  for  this  worst  of  all  my  foes  besetting 
me,  but  for  some  time  my  soul  has  been  be- 
clouded with  a thickening  atmosphere  of  evil 
imaginations  and  gloomy  presages. 

* * # * 

Monday  Evening. 

I have  just  heard  * * * * give  a ser- 

mon. He  is  a man  famous  for  his  benevolence,  I 
and  I revere  him  ; but  from  such  ideas  of  my  I 
Creator,  good  Lord  deliver  me  ! Religion,  my 
honored  friend,  is  surely  a simple  business,  as  it 
equally  concerns  the  ignorant  and  the  learned, 
the  poor  and  the  rich.  That  there  is  an  incom- 
prehensibly Great  Being,  to  whom  I owe  my 
existence,  and  that  he  must  be  intimately  ac- 
quainted wit  h the  operations  and  progress  of  the 
internal  machinery,  and  consequent  outward  de- 
portment of  this  creature  which  he  has  made : 
these  are,  I think,  self-evident  propositions. 
That  there  is  a real  and  eternal  distinction  be- 
tween virtue  and  vice,  and  consequently,  that  I 
am  an  accountable  creature  : that  from  the  seem- 
ing nature  of  the  human  mind,  as  well  as  from 
the  evident  imperfection,  nay,  positive  injustice 
in  the  administration  of  affairs,  both  in  the  nat-  | 
ural  and  moral  worlds,  there  must  be  a retribu-  1 


five  scene  of  existence  beyond  the  grave — must 
I think,  be  allowed  by  every  one  who  will  give 
himself  a moment’s  reflection.  I will  go  far- 
ther, and  affirm,  that  from  the  sublimity,  excel 
lence,  and  purity,  of  his  doctrine  and  precepts, 
unparalleled  by  all  the  aggregated  wisdom  and 
learning  of  many  preceding  ages,  though  to  ap- 
pearance, he  himself  was  the  obscurest,  and 
most  illiterate  of  our  species;  therefore  Jesus 
Christ  was  from  God. 

* # * * 

Whatever  mitigates  the  woes,  or  increases 
the  happiness  of  others,  this  is  my  criterion  of 
goodness ; and  whatever  injures  society  at  large 
or  any  individual  in  it,  this  is  my  measure  of  ini- 
quity. 

What  think  you.  Madam,  of  my  creed  ? I 
trust  that  I have  said  nothing  that  will  lessen 
me  in  the  eye  of  one  whose  good  opinion  I value 
almost  next  to  the  approbation  of  my  own 
mind. 


No.  LXXVII. 

FROM  DR.  MOORE. 

Clifford- Street,  ] Oth  June,  1789. 
Dear  Sir, — 

I thank  you  for  the  different  communications 
you  have  made  me  of  your  occasional  produc- 
tions in  manuscript,  all  of  which  have  merit, 
and  some  of  them  merit  of  a different  kind  from 
what  appears  in  the  poems  you  have  published. 
You  ought  carefully  to  preserve  all  your  occa- 
sional productions,  to  correct  and  improve  them 
at  your  leisure  ; and  when  you  can  select  as 
many  of  these  as  will  make  a volume,  publish 
it  either  at  Edinburgh  or  London,  by  subscrip- 
tion ; on  such  an  occasion.it  maybe  in  my 
power,  as  it  is  very  much  in  my  inclination,  to 
be  of  service  to  you. 

If  I were  to  offer  an  opinion,  it  would  be  that, 
in  your  future  productions,  you  should  abandon 
the  Scottish  stanza  and  dialect,  and  adopt  the 
measure  and  language  of  modern  English  po- 
etry. 

The  stanza  which  you  use  in  imitation  of 
Christ  kirk  on  the  Green , with  the  tiresome  repe- 
tition of  “that  day,”  is  fatiguing  to  English 
ears,  and  I should  think  not  very  agreeable  to 
Scottish. 

All  the  fine  satire  and  humor  of  your  Holy 
Fair  is  lost  on  the  English  ; yet,  without  more 
trouble  to  yourself,  you  could  have  conveyed 
the  whole  to  them.  The  same  is  true  of  some 
of  your  other  poems.  In  your  Epistle  to  J. 

S. , the  stanzas,  from  that  beginning  with 

this  line,  “ This  life,  so  far’s  as  I understand,” 
to  that  which  ends  with — ‘‘Short  while  it 
grieves.”  are  easy,  flowing,  gaily  philosophical 
and  of  Horatian  elegance — the  language  is  En- 
glish, with  a few  Scottish  words,  and  some  of 
those  so  harmonious  as  to  add  to  the  beauty  ; 
for  what  poet  would  not  prefer  gloaming  to  twi- 
light ? 

I imagine,  that  by  carefully  keeping,  and  oc- 
casionally polishing  and  correcting  those  verses, 
which  the  Muse  dictates,  you  will  within  a year 
or  two,  have  another  volume  as  large  as  the  first 


LETTERS. 


259 


ready  for  the  press  : and  this  without  diverting 
you  from  every  proper  attention  to  the  study 
and  practice  of  husbandry,  in  which  I under- 
stand you  are  very  learned;  and  which  I fancy 
you  will  choose  to  adhere  to  as  a wife,  while 
poetry  amuses  you  from  time  to  time  as  a mis- 
tress. The  former,  like  a prudent  wife,  must 
not  show  ill-humor  although  you  retain  a sneak- 
ing kindness  to  this  agreeable  gypsy,  and  pay 
her  occasional  visits,  which  in  no  manner  alien- 
ates your  heart  from  your  lawful  spouse,  but 
tends  on  the  contrary,  to  promote  her  interest. 

I desired  Mr.  Cadell  to  write  to  Mr.  Creech 
to  send  you  a copy  of  Zeluco.  This  perform- 
ance has  had  great  success  here;  but  I shall  be 
glad  to  have  your  opinion  of  it,  because  I value 
your  opinion,  and  because  I know  you  are  above 
saying  what  you  do  not  think. 

J beg  you  will  offer  my  best  wishes  to  my 
very  good  friend,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who  1 under- 
stand is  your  neighbor.  If  she  is  as  happy  as  1 
wish  her,  she  is  happy  enough.  Make  my 
compliments  also  to  Mrs.  Burns : and  believe 
me  to  be,  with  sincere  esteem, 

Dear  Sir,  yours,  &c. 


No.  LXXVIII. 

FROM  MISS  J.  LITTLE. 

Loudon  House , 12 th  July,  1789. 

Sir, — 

Though  I have  not  the  happiness  of  being 
personally  acquainted  with  you,  yet,  amongst 
the  number  of  those  who  have  read  and  admi- 
red your  publications,  may  I be  permitted  to 
trouble  you  with  this.  You  must  know,  Sir,  I 
am  somewhat  in  love  with  the  Muses,  though  I 
cannot  boast  of  any  favors  they  have  deigned  to 
confer  upon  me  as  yet : my  situation  in  life  has 
been  very  much  against  me  as  to  that.  I have 
spent  some  years  in  and  about  Eccelefechan 
(where  my  parents  reside.)  in  the  station  of 
a servant,  and  am  now  come  to  Loudon  House 

at  present  possessed  by  Mrs.  Ii : she  is 

daughter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  of  Dunlop,  whom  I 
understand  you  are  particularly  acquainted  with. 
As  I had  the  pleasure  of  perusing  your  poems, 
I felt  a partiality  for  the  author,  w hich  I should 
not  have  experienced  had  you  been  in  a more 
dignified  station.  I wrote  a few  verses  of  ad- 
dress to  you,  which  I did  not  then  think  of  ever 
presenting  ; but  as  fortune  seems  to  have  favor- 
ed me  in  this,  by  bringing  me  into  a family,  by 
whom  you  are  w’ell  known  and  much  esteem- 
ed, and  where  perhaps  I may  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  you,  I shall  in  hopes  of  your  fu- 
ture friendship,  take  the  liberty  to  transcribe 
them. 


Fair  fa’  the  honest  rustic  swain. 

The  pride  o’ a’  our  Scottish  plain. 
Thou  gie’s  us  joy  to  hear  thy  strain, 
And  notes  sae  sweet : 
Old  Ramsay’s  shade  revived  again 
In  thee  we  greet. 

Lov’d  Thalia,  that  delightful  muse, 
Seem'd  lang  shut  up  as  a recluse  ; 
To  all  she  did  her  aid  refuse, 

Since  Allan’s  day , 
Till  Burns  arose,  then  did  she  chuse 
To  grace  his  lay. 


To  hear  thy  sang  all  ranks  desire, 

Sae  weel  you  strike  the  dormant  iyre  ; 

Apollo  with  poet  c fire 

Thy  breast  does  warm  ; 

And  critics  silently  admire 

Thy  art  to  charm. 

Ctesar  and  Luath  weel  can  speak, 

’Tis  pity  e’er  their  gabs  should  steek, 

But  into  human  nature  keek, 

And  knots  unravel ; 

To  hear  their  lectures  once  a week, 

Nine  tpiles  I’d  travel. 

Thy  dedication  to  G.  H. 

An  unco  bonnie  hamspun  speech, 

Wi!  winsome  glee  the  heart  can  teach 
A better  lesson. 

Than  servile  hards,  who  fawn  and  fleech 
Like  beggar’s  messon. 

When  slighted  love  becomes  your  theme, 

And  woman’s  faithless  vows  you  blame. 

With  so  much  pathos  you  exclaim, 

In  your  Lament  : 

But  glanc’d  by  the  most  frigid  dame, 

She  would  relent. 

The  daisy  too,  ye  sing  wi’  skill ; 

And  weel  ye  praise  the  whisky  gill ; 

In  vain  I blunt  my  feckless  quill. 

Your  fame  to  raise  ; 

While  echo  sounds  from  ilka  hill, 

To  Burns’s  praise. 

Did  Addison  or  Pope  but  hear. 

Or  Sam,  that  critic  most  severe, 

A ploughboy  sing  with  throat  sae  clear, 

They,  in  a rage. 

Their  works  would  a’  in  pieces  tear. 

And  curse  your  page. 

Sure  Milton’s  eloquence  were  faint, 

The  beauties  of  your  verse  to  paint ; 

My  rude  unpolish’d  strokes  but  taint 
Their  brilliancy  ; 

Th’  attempt  would  doubtless  vex  a saint, 

And  weel  may  thee. 

The  task  I’ll  drop — with  heart  sincere 
To  Heaven  present  my  humble  pray’r, 

That  all  the  blessings  mortals  share, 

May  be  by  turns 
Dispens’d  by  an  indulgent  care. 

To  Robert  Burns ! 

Sir,  I hope  you  will  pardon  my  boldness  in 
this  ; my  hand  trembles  while  I w'rite  to  you, 
I conscious  of  my  unworthiness  of  what  I would 
most  earnestly  solicit  ; viz.  your  favor,  and 
friendship,  yet  hoping  you  will  show  yourself 
possessed  of  as  much  generosity  and  good  na- 
ture as  will  prevent  your  exposing  what  may 
justly  be  found  liable  to  censure  in  this  meas- 
ure, 1 shall  take  the  liberty  to  subscribe  myself, 
Sir, 

Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 
JANET  LITTLE. 

P.  S.  If  you  would  condescend  to  honor  me 
with  a few  lines  from  your  hand,  I would  take 
it  as  a particular  favor  ; and  direct  to  me  at  Lou- 
don House,  near  Galston. 


No.  LXXIX. 

FROM  MR.***** 

London , 5tli  August , 1789. 

My  Dear  Sir, — 

Excuse  me  when  I say,  that  the  uncommon 
abilities  which  you  possess  must  render  your 
correspondence  very  acceptable  to  any  one.  I 


260 


LETTERS. 


can  assure  you  I am  particularly  proud  of  your 
partiality,  and  shall  endeavor,  by  every  method 
in  my  power,  to  merit  a continuance  of  your  po- 
liteness. 

# * # * 

When  you  can  spare  a few  moments  I should 
be  proud  of  a letter  from  you,  directed  for  me, 
Gerard-street,  Soho. 

* * *-  * 

I cannot  express  my  happiness  sufficiently  at 
the  instance  of  your  attachment  to  my  late  in- 
estimable friend,  Bob  Fergusson,*  who  was 
particularly  intimate  with  myself  and  relations. 
While  1 recollect  with  pleasure  his  extraordi- 
nary talents,  and  many  amiable  qualities,  it  af- 
fords me  the  greatest  consolation  that  I am  hon- 
ored with  the  correspondence  of  his  successor 
in  national  simplicity  and  genius.  That  Mr. 
Burns  has  refined  in  the  art  of  poetry,  must 
readily  be  admitted  ; but  notwithstanding  many 
favorable  representations,  I am  yet  to  learn  that 
he  inherits  his  convivial  powers. 

There  was  such  a richness  of  conversation, 
such  a plenitude  of  fancy  and  attraction  in  him 
that  when  I call  the  happy  period  of  our  inter- 
course to  my  memory,  I feel  myself  in  a state 
of  delirium.  I was  then  younger  than  him  by 
eight  or  ten  years,  but  his  manner  was  so  felici- 
tous, that  he  enraptured  every  person  around 
him,  and  infused  into  the  hearts  of  the  young  and 
the  old  the  spirit  and  animation  which  operated 
on  his  own  mind. 

I am,  Dear  Sir,  yours,  &c. 


No.  LXXX. 

TO  MR.  * **** 

In  answer  to  the  foregoing. 

My  Dear  Sir, — 

The  hurry  of  a farmer  in  this  particular  sea- 
son, and  the  indolence  of  a poet  at  all  times  and 
seasons,  will  I hope,  plead  my  excuse  for  neg- 
lecting so  long  to  answer  your  obliging  letter  of 
the  5th  of  August. 

That  you  have  done  well  in  quitting  your  la- 
borious concern  in  ****  I do  not  doubt : the 
weighty  reasons  you  mention  were,  I hope  very 
deservedly,  indeed,  weighty  ones,  and  your 
health  is  a matter  of  the  last  importance  : but 
whether  the  remaining  proprietors  of  the  paper 
have  also  done  well,  is  what  I much  doubt.  The 
****,  so  far  as  I was  a reader,  exhibited  such 
a brilliancy  of  point,  such  an  elegance  of  para- 
graph, and  such  a variety  of  intelligence,  that  I 
can  hardly  conceive  it  possible  to  continue  a 
daily  paper  in  the  same  degree  of  excellence  ; 
but,  if  there  was  a man  who  had  abilities  equal 
to  the  task,  that  man’s  assistance  the  proprie- 
tors have  lost. 

* * * *• 

When  1 received  your  letter,  I was  transcri- 
bing for  ****,  my  letter  to  the  magistrates  of 
the  Canongate,  Edinburgh,  begging  their  per- 
mission to  place  a tomb-stone  over  poor  Fer- 
gusson, and  their  edict,  in  consequence  of  my 
petition,  but  now  I shall  send  them  to  * * * 

Poor  Fergusson  ! If  there  be  a life  beyond 
the  grave,  which  I trust  there  is  ; and  if  there 

* The  erection  of  a monument  to  him. 


be  a good  God  presiding  over  all  nature,  which 
I am  sure  there  is,  thou  art  now  enjoying  exist- 
ence in  a glorious  world,  where  worth  of  the 
heart  alone  is  distinction  in  the  man  ; where 
riches,  deprived  of  all  their  pleasure-purchasing 
powers,  return  to  their  native  sordid  matter: 
where  titles  and  honor  are  the  disregarded  rev- 
eries of  an  idle  dream  ; and  where  that  heavy 
virtue,  which  is  the  negative  consequence  of 
steady  dulness,  and  those  thoughtless,  though 
often  destructive  follies,  which  are  the  unavoid- 
able aberrations  of  frail  human  nature,  will  be 
thrown  into  equal  oblivion  as  if  they  had  never 
been. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir ! So  soon  as  your  pres- 
ent views  and  schemes  are  concentred  in  an 
aim,  I shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  ; as  your 
welfare  and  happiness  is  by  no  means  a subject 
indifferent  to 

Yours,  &c. 


No.  LXXXI. 

TO  MISS  WILLIAMS. 

1789. 

Madam, — 

Of  the  many  problems  in  the  nature  of  that 
wonderful  creature,  Man,  this  is  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary,  that  he  shall  go  on  from  day  to 
day,  from  week  to  week,  from  month  to  month, 
or  perhaps  from  year  to  year,  suffering  a hun- 
dred times  more  in  an  hour  from  the  impotent 
consciousness  of  neglecting  what  he  ought  to 
do,  than  the  very  doing  of  it  would  cost  him. 
I am  deeply  indebted  to  you,  first  for  a most 
elegant  poetic  compliment  ;*  then  for  a polite 
obliging  letter ; and  lastly,  for  your  excellent 
poem  on  the  Slave-trade  ; and  yet,  wretch  that 
I am  ! though  the  debts  were  debts  of  honor, 
and  the  creditor  a lady,  I have  put  off,  and  put 
off,  even  the  very  acknowledgment  of  the  obli- 
gation, until  you  must  indeed  be  the  very  angel 
I take  you  for,  if  you  can  forgive  me. 

Your  poem  I have  read  with  the  highest  plea- 
sure. I have  a way,  whenever  1 read  a book, 
I mean  a book  in  our  own  trade,  Madam,  a po- 
etic one,  and  when  it  is  my  own  property,  that 
I take  a pencil  and  mark  at  the  ends  of  verses, 
or  note  on  margins  and  odd  paper,  little  criti- 
cisms of  approbation -or  disapprobation  as  I per- 
use along.  I will  make  no  apology  for  presenting 
you  with  a few  unconnected  thoughts  that  oc- 
curred to  me  in  my  repeated  perusals  of  your 
poem.  I want  to  show  you  that  I have  honesty 
enough  to  tell  you  what  I take  to  be  truths, 
even  when  they  are  not  quite  on  the  side  of  ap- 
probation ; and  I do  it  in  the  firm  faith,  that 
you  have  equal  greatness  of  mind  to  hear  them 
with  pleasure. 

I had  lately  the  honor  of  a letter  from  Dr. 
Moore,  where  he  tells  me  that  he  has  sent  me 
some  books.  They  are  not  yet  come  to  hand, 
but  I hear  they  are  on  the  way. 

Wishing  you  all  success  in  your  progress  in 
the  path  of  fame  ; and  that  you  may  equally 
escape  the  danger  of  stumbling  through  incau- 
tious speed,  or  losing  ground  through  loitering 
neglect, 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  &c. 

* See  Miss  Smith’s  Sonnet,  page  75.— note. 


LETTERS. 


261 


No.  LXXXII. 

FROM  MISS  WILLIAMS. 

7tli  August,  1789. 

Dear  Sib, — 

I do  not  lose  a moment  in  returning  you  my 
sincere  acknowledgments  for  your  letter,  and 
your  criticism  on  my  poem,  which  is  a very 
flattering  proof  that  you  have  read  it  with  atten- 
tion. 1 think  your  objections  are  perfectly  just, 

except  in  one  instance, 

* * * * 

You  have  indeed  been  very  profuse  of  pane- 
gyric on  my  little  performance.  A much  less 
portion  of  applause  from  you  would  have  been 
gratifying  to  me  ; since  1 think  its  value  de- 
pends entirely  upon  the  source  from  whence  it 
proceeds — the  incense  of  praise,  like  other  in- 
cense, is  more  grateful  from  the  quality  than 
the  quantity  of  the  odor. 

I hope  you  still  cultivate  the  pleasures  of  po- 
etry. which  are  precious,  even  independent  of 
the  rewards  of  fame.  Perhaps  the  most  valua- 
ble property  of  poetry  is  its  power  of  disenga- 
ging the  mind  from  worldly  cares,  and  leading 
the  imagination  to  the  richest  springs  of  intel- 
lectual enjoyment ; since,  however  frequently 
life  may  be  chequered  with  gloomy  scenes,  those 
who  truly  love  the  Muse  can  always  find  one 
little  path  adorned  with  flowers  and  cheered  by 
sunshine. 

* * * * 


No.  LXXXIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  6th  Sept.  1789. 

Dear  Madam, — 

I have  mentioned,  in  my  last,  my  appoint- 
ment to  the  Excise,  and  the  birth  of  little 
Frank,  who,  by  the  by,  I trust  will  be  no  dis- 
credit to  the  honorable  name  of  Wallace,  as  he 
has  a fine  manly  countenance,  and  a figure  that 
might  do  credit  to  a little  fellow  two  months 
older  ; and  likewise  an  excellent  good  temper, 
though,  when  he  pleases,  he  has  a pipe,  only 
not  quite  so  loud  as  the  horn  that  his  immortal 
namesake  blew  as  a signal  to  take  out  the  pin 
of  Stirling  bridge. 

I had  some  time  ago  an  epistle,  part  poetic, 
and  part  prosaic,  from  your  poetess,  Mrs.  J. 
Little,  a very  ingenious  but  modest  composition. 
I should  have  written  her,  as  she  requested,  but 
for  the  hurry  of  this  new  business.  I have 
heard  of  her  and  her  compositions  in  this  coun- 
try ; and  I am  happy  to  add,  always  to  the  hon- 
or of  her  character,  The  fact  is,  I know  not 
well  how  to  write  to  her  : I should  sit  down  to 
a sheet  of  paper  that  I knew  not  how  to  stain. 
I am  no  dab  at  fine-drawn  letter- writing ; and 
except  when  prompted  by  friendship  or  grati- 
tude, or,  which  happens  extremely  rarely,  in- 
spired by  the  Muse  (I  know  not  her  name)  that 
presides  over  epistolary  writing,  I sit  down, 
when  necessitated  to  write,  as  I would  sit  down 
to  beat  hemp. 

Some  parts  of  your  letter  of  the  20th  August 
struck  me  with  the  most  melancholy  concern 
for  the  state  of  your  mind  at  present. 


* * * * 

Would  I could  write  you  a letter  of  comfort! 
I would  sit  down  to  it  with  as  much  pleasure  as 
I would  to  write  an  Epic  poem  of  my  own  com- 
position that  should  equal  the  Iliad.  Religion, 
my  dear  friend,  is  the  true  comfort.  A strong 
persuasion  in  a future  state  of  existence  ; a prop- 
osition so  obviously  probable,  that,  setting  rev- 
elation aside,  every  nation  and  people,  so  far  as 
investigation  has  reached,  for  at  least  near  four 
thousand  years,  have  in  some  mode  or  other 
firmly  believed  it.  In  vain  would  we  reason 
and  pretend  to  doubt.  I have  myself  done  so 
to  a very  daring  pitch : but  when  I reflected 
that  I was  opposing  the  most  ardent  wishes,  and 
the  most  darling  hopes  of  good  men,  and  flying 
in  the  face  of  all  human  belief,  in  all  ages,  I 
was  shocked  at  my  own  conduct. 

I know  not  whether  I have  ever  sent  you  the 
following  lines,  or  if  you  have  ever  seen  them  ; 
but  it  is  one  of  my  favorite  quotations,  which  I 
keep  constantly  by  me  in  my  progress  through 
life,  in  the  language  of  the  book  of  Job, 

“Against  the  day  of  battle  and  of  war  ” 
spoken  of  religion, 

“ ’Tis  this , my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning  bright, 
’Tis  this  that  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night. 

When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends  are  few; 
When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes  pursue  ; 
’Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the  smart, 
Disarms  affliction,  or  repels  his  dart ; 

Within  the  breast  bids  purest  raptures  rise, 

Bids  smiling  conscience  spread  her  cloudless  skies.” 

I have  been  very  busy  with  Zeluco.  The 
Doctor  is  so  obliging  as  to  request  my  opinion 
of  it ; and  I have  been  revolving  in  my  mind 
some  kind  of  criticisms  on  novel-writing,  but 
it  is  a depth  beyond  my  research.  I shall,  how- 
ever, digest  my  thoughts  on  the  subject  as  well 
as  I can.  Zeluco  is  a most  sterling  perform- 
ance. 

Farewell ! Dieu,  le  bon  Dieu,  je  vous  com - 
mende ! 

No.  LXXXIV. 

FROM  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh,  2ilh  August,  1789. 

Dear  Burns,  thou  brother  of  my  heart. 

Both  for  thy  virtues  and  thy  art ; 

If  art  it  may  be  called  in  thee, 

Which  nature’s  bounty,  large  and  free. 

With  pleasure  on  thy  breast  diffuses, 

And  warms  thy  soul  with  all  the  Muses. 
Whether  to  laugh  with  easy  grace, 

Thy  numbers  move  thesage'3  face, 

Or  bid  the  softer  passion  rise, 

And  ruthless  souls  with  grief  surprise, 

’Tis  nature’s  voice  distinctly  felt, 

Through  thee,  her  organ,  thus  to  melt. 

Most  anxiously  I wish  to  know, 

With  thee  of  late  how  matters  go; 

How  keeps  thy  much-loved  Jean  her  health  ? 
What  promises  thy  farm  of  wealth  ? 

Whether  the  Muse  persists  to  smile, 

And  all  thy  anxious  cares  beguile? 

Whether  bright  fancy  keeps  alive  ? 

And  how  thy  darling  infants  thrive  ? 

For  me  with  grief  and  sickness  spent, 

Since  I my  journey  homeward  bent, 

Spirits  depress’d  no  more  I mourn, 

But  vigor,  life,  and  health  return, 


262 


LETTERS. 


No  more  to  gloomy  thoughts  a prey, 

I sleep  all  night,  and  live  all  day  ; 

By  turns  my  book  and  friend  enjoy, 

And  thus  my  circling  hours  employ  ! 

Happy  while  yet  these  hours  remain 
If  Burns  could  join  the  cheerful  train, 

With  wonted  zeal,  sincere  and  fervent, 
Salute  once  more  his  humble  servant, 

THO.  BLACKLOCK. 


No.  LXXXV. 

TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK.  See  Poems,  p.  61. 


No.  LXXXVT. 

R.  GRAHAM,  ESQ.  OF  FINTRY. 

9th  December,  1789. 

Sir, — 

I have  a good  while  had  a wish  to  trouble  you 
with  a letter,  and  had  certainly  done  it  ere  now 
— but  for  a humiliating  something  that  throws 
cold  water  on  the  resolution,  as  if  one  should 
say,  “ You  have  found  Mr.  Graham  a very  pow- 
erful and  kind  friend  indeed ; and  that  interest 
he  is  so  kindly  taking  in  your  concerns,  you 
ought,  by  every  thing  in  your  power,  to  keep 
alive  and  cherish.”  Now  though  since  God 
has  thought  proper  to  make  one  powerful  and 
another  helpless,  the  connexion  of  obliger  and 
obliged  is  ail  fair  ; and  though  my  being  under 
your  patronage  is  to  me  highly  honorable,  yet, 
Sir,  allow  me  to  flatter  myself,  that  as  a poet 
and  an  honest  man,  you  first  interested  yourself 
in  my  welfare,  and  principally  as  such  still,  you 
permit  me  to  approach  you. 

I have  found  the  excise  business  go  on  a great 
deal  smoother  with  me  than  I expected  ; owing 
a good  deal  to  the  generous  friendship  of  Mr. 
Mitchell,  my  collector,  and  the  kind  assistance 
of  Mr.  Findlater,  my  supervisor.  I dare  to  be 
honest,  and  I fear  no  labor.  Nor  do  I find  my 
hurried  life  greatly  inimical  to  my  correspond- 
ence with  the  Muses.  Their  visits  to  me,  in- 
deed, and  I believe  to  most  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, like  the  visits  of  good  angels,  are  short 
and  far  between ; but  I meet  them  now  and 
then  as  I jog  through  the  hills  of  Nithsdale,  just 
as  I used  to  do  on  the  banks  of  Ayr.  I take 
the  liberty  to  enclose  you  a few  bagatelles,  all 
of  them  the  productions  of  my  leisure  thoughts 
in  my  excise  rides. 

If  you  know  or  have  ever  seen  Captain  Grose 
the  antiquarian,  you  will  enter  into  any  humor  j 
that  is  in  the  verses  on  him.  Perhaps  you 
have  seen  them  before,  as  I sent  them  to  a 
London  newspaper,  Though  I dare  say  you 
have  none  of  the  solemn-league-and-covenant 
fire,  which  shone  so  conspicuous  in  Lord  George 
Gordon  and  the  Kilmarnock  weavers,  yet  I 
think  you  must  have  heard  of  Dr.  M‘Gill,  one 
of  the  clergymen  of  Ayr,  and  his  heretical  book. 
God  help  him,  poor  man  ! Though  he  is  one  of 
the  worthiest,  as  well  as  one  of  the  ablest  of  the  j 
whole  priesthood  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  in  ev-  j 
ery  sense  of  that  ambiguous  term,  yet  the  poor  | 
Doctor  and  his  numerous  family  are  in  immi- 
nent danger  of  being  thrown  out  to  the  mercy  of 
the  winter-winds.  The  enclosed  ballad  on  that 
business  is,  I confess  too  local,  but.  I laughed 


myself  at  some  conceits  in  it,  though  I am  con- 
vinced in  my  conscience  that  there  are  a good 
many  heavy  stanzas  in  it  too. 

The  election  ballad,  as  you  will  see,  alludes 
to  the  present  canvass  in  our  string  of  boroughs. 
I do  not  believe  there  will  be  such  a hard-run 
match  in  the  whole  general  election.* 

* * * * 

I am  too  little  a man  to  have  any  political  at- 
tachments ; I am  deeply  indebted  to,  and  have 
the  warmest  veneration  for,  individuals  of  both 
parties  ; but  a man  who  has  it  in  his  power  to 
be  the  father  of  a country,  and  who  * * * * 

is  a character  that  one  cannot  speak  of  with  pa- 
tience. 

Sir  J.  J.  does  “ what  man  can  do  but  yet 
I doubt  his  fate. 

* * * * 


No.  LXXXVII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  13tft  December,  1789. 

Many  thanks,  dear  Madam,  for  your  sheet- 
ful of  rhymes.  Though  at  present  I am  below 
the  veriest  prose,  yet  from  you  every  thing 
pleases.  I am  groaning  under  the  miseries  of  a 
diseased  nervous  system  ; a system,  the  state  of 
which  is  most  conducive  to  our  happiness — or 
the  most  productive  of  our  misery.  For  now 
near  three  weeks  I have  been  so  ill  with  the 
nervous  head-ache,  that  I have  been  obliged  to 
give  up  for  a time  my  excise-books,  being 
scarcely  able  to  lift  my  head,  much  less  to  ride 
once  a week  over  ten  muir  parishes.  What  is 
man  ? To-day  in  the  luxuriance  of  health,  exult- 
ing in  the  enjoyment  of  existence  ; in  a few  days 
or  perhaps  in  a few  hours,  loaded  with  consci- 
ous painful  being,  counting  the  tardy  pace  of 
the  lingering  moments  by  the  repercussions  of 
anguish,  and  refusing  or  denied  a comforter,  day 
follows  night,  and  night  comes  after  day,  only 
to  curse  him  with  life  which  gives  him  no 
pleasure  ; and  yet  the  awful,  dark  termination 
of  that  life  is  a something  at  which  he  recoils. 

“ Tell  us,  ye  dead  ; will  none  of  you  in  pity 

Disclose  the  secret 

What  ’ tis  you  are,  aud  we  must  shortly  be  ! 

’tis  no  matter  : 

A little  time  will  make  us  learn’d  as  you  are.” 

Can  it  be  possible,  that  when  I resign  this 
frail,  feverish  being,  I shall  still  find  myself  in 
conscious  exis'tence  ! When  the  last  gasp  of  ag- 
ony has  announced  that  I am  no  more  to  those 
that  knew  me,  and  the  few  who  loved  me  ; 
when  the  cold,  stiffened,  unconscious,  ghastly 
corpse  is  resigned  into  the  earth,  to  be  the  prey 
of  unsightly  reptiles,  and  to  become  in  time  a 
trodden  clod,  shall  I yet  be  warm  in  life,  seeing 
and  seen,  enjoying  and  enjoyed?  Ye  venera- 
ble sages,  and  holy  flamens,  is  there  probabili- 
ty in  your  conjectures,  truth  in  your  stories  of 
another  world  beyond  death  ; or  are  they  all 
aiike,  baseless  visions,  and  fabricated  fables  ? 
If  there  is  another  life,  it  must  be  only  for  the 
just,  the  benevolent,  the  amiable,  and  the  hu- 
* This  alludes  to  the  contest  for  the  borough  of 
Dumfries,  between  the  Duke  of Qiieensberry’s  inter- 
est and  that  of  Sir  James  Johnstone. — E. 


LETTERS. 


263 


mane  ; what  a flattering  idea,  then,  is  the  world 
to  come  ! Would  to  God  I as  firmly  believed  it, 
as  I ardently  wish  it ! There  I should  meet  an 
aged  parent,  now  at  rest  from  the  many  bufiet- 
ings  of  an  evil  world,  against  which  he  so  long 
and  so  bravely  struggled.  There  should  I meet 
the  friend,  the  disinterested  friend  of  my  early 
life  ; the  man  who  rejoiced  to  see  me,  because 

he  loved  me  and  could  serve  me. Muir, 

thy  weaknesses,  were  the  aberrations  of  human 
nature,  but  thy  heart  glowed  with  every  thing 
generous,  manly  and  noble  ; and  if  ever  eman- 
ation from  the  All-good  Being  animated  a human 
form,  it  is  thine  ! — There  should  I,  with  speech- 
less agony  of  rapture,  again  recognise  my  lost, 
my  ever  dear  Mary  ! whose  bosom  was  fraught 
with  truth,  honor,  constancy,  and  love. 


My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  heavenly  rest  ? 

Seest  thou  tliy  lover  lowly  laid  ) 

Hearest  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  1 


Jesus  Christ,  thou  amiablest  of  characters  ! 
I trust  thou  art  no  impostor,  and  that  thy  reve- 
lation of  blissful  scenes  of  existence  beyond 
death  and  the  grave,  is  not  one  of  the  many  im- 
positions which,  time  after  time  have  been  palm- 
ed on  credulous  mankind.  I trust  that  in  thee 
**  shall  all  the  families  of  the  earth  be  blessed,” 
by  being  yet  connected  together  in  a better 
world,  where  every  tie  that  bound  heart  to  heart 
in  this  state  of  existence,  shall  be,  far  beyond 
our  present  conceptions,  more  endearing. 

I am  a good  deal  inclined  to  think  with  those 
who  maintain,  that  what  are  called  nervous  af- 
fections are  in  fact  diseases  of  the  mind.  1 can- 
not reason,  I cannot  think;  and  but  to  you  I 
would  not  venture  to  write  anything  above  an 
order  to  a cobbler.  You  have  felt  too  much  of 
the  ills  of  life  not  to  sympathise  with  a diseased 
wretch,  who  is  impaired  more  than  half  of  any 
faculties  he  possessed.  Your  goodness  will  ex- 
cuse this  distracted  scrawl,  which  the  writer 
dare  scarcely  read,  and  which  he  would  throw 
into  the  fire  were  he  able  to  write  anything  bet- 
ter, or  indeed  anything  at  all. 

Rumor  told  me  something  of  a son  of  yours 
who  was  returned  from  the  East  or  West-In- 
dies. If  you  have  gotten  news  of  James  or  An- 
thony, it  was  cruel  in  you  not  to  let  me  know  ; 
as  I promise  you  on  the  sincerity  of  a man  who 
is  weary  of  one  world  and  anxious  about  anoth- 
er, that  scarce  anything  could  give  me  so  much 
pleasure  as  to  hear  of  any  good  thing  befalling 
my  honored  friend. 

If  you  have  a minute’s  leisure;  take  up  your 
pen  in  pity  to  lepauvre  miserable , R.  E>. 


No.  LXXXVIII. 

TO  SIR  JOHN  SINCLAIR. 

Sir, — 

The  following  circumstance  has,  I believe, 
been  omitted  in  the  statistical  account  transmit- 
ted to  you.  of  the  parish  of  Dunscore,  in  Nilhs- 
dale.  I beg  leave  to  send  it  to  you,  because  it 
is  new,  and  may  be  useful.  How  far  it  is  deserv- 
ing of  a place  in  your  patriotic  publication,  you 
are  the  best  judge. 


To  store  the  minds  of  the  lower  classes  with 
useful  knowledge  is  certainly  of  very  great  im- 
portance, both  to  them  as  individuals,  and  soci- 
ety at  large.  Giving  them  a turn  for  reading 
and  reflection,  is  giving  them  a source  of  inno- 
cent and  laudable  amusement;  and,  besides, 
raises  them  to  a more  dignified  degree  in  the 
scale  of  rationality.  Impressed  with  this  idea,  a 
gentleman  in  this  parish,  Robert  Riddel,  Esq. 
of  Glenriddel,  set  on  foot  a species  of  circulating 
library,  on  a plan  so  simple  as  to  be  practicable 
in  any  corner  of  the  country  ; and  so  useful  as 
j to  deserve  the  notice  of  every  country  gentle- 
man, who  thinks  the.  improvement  of  that  part 
j of  his  own  species,  whom  chance  has  thrown 
' into  the  humble  walks  of  the  peasant  and  the 
artisan,  a matter  worthy  of  his  attention. 

Mr.  Riddel  got  a number  of  his  own  tenants, 
and  farming  neighbors,  to  form  themselves  in- 
to a society  for  the  purpose  of  having  a library 
among  themselves.  They  entered  into  a legal 
engagement  to  abide  by  it  for  three  years ; with  a 
saving  clause  or  two,  in  case  of  a removal  to  a 
distance,  or  of  death.  Each  member,  at  his  en- 
try, paid  five  shillings  ; and  at  each  of  their 
meetings,  which  were  held  every  fourth  Satur- 
day, sixpence  more.  With  their  entry-money, 
and  the  credit  which  they  took  on  the  faith  of 
their  future  funds,  they  laid  in  a tolerable  stock 
of  books,  at  the  commencement.  What  authors 
they  were  to  purchase,  was  always  decided  by 
the  majority.  At  every  meeting,  all  the  books, 
under  certain  fines  and  forfeitures,  by  way  of 
penalty,  were  to  be  produced:  and  the  mem- 
bers had  their  choice  of  the  volumes  in  rotation. 
He  whose  name  stood  for  that  night  first  on  the 
list,  had  his  choice  of  what  volume  he  pleased 
in  the  whole  collection;  the  second  had  his 
choice  after  the  first ; the  third  after  the  second 
and  so  on  to  the  last.  At  the  next  meeting,  he 
who  had  been  first  on  the  list  at  the  preceding 
meeting  was  last  at  this  ; he  who  had  been  sec- 
ond was  first ; and  so  on  through  the  whole 
three  years.  At  the  expiration  of  the  engage- 
ment, the  books  were  sold  by  auction,  but  only 
among  the  members  themselves  ; and  each  man 
had  share  of  the  common  stock,  in  money  or  in 
books,  as  he  chose  to  be  a purchaser  or  not. 

At  the  breaking  up  of  this  little  society,  which 
was  formed  under  Mr.  Riddel’s  patronage,  what 
with  benefactions  of  books  from  him,  and  what 
with  their  own  purchases,  they  had  collected  to- 
gether upwards  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  vol- 
umes. It  will  easily  be  guessed,  that  a good 
deal  of  trash  would  be  bought.  Among  the 
books,  however,  of  this  little  library,  were 
Blair' s Sermons , Robertson's  History  of  Scot 
land,  Hume's  History  of  the  Stuarts,  The  Spec 
iat.or,  Idler,  Adventurer,  Mirror.,  Lounger 
Observer,  Man  of  Feeling.  Man  of  the  World 
Chrysal,  Don  Quixolte,  Joseph  Andrews,  &C 
A peasant  who  can  read  and  enjoy  such  books 
is  certainly  a much  superior  being  to  his  neigh 
bor,  who  perhaps  stalks  beside  his  team,  very 
little  removed,  except  in  shape,  from  the  brutes 
he  drives.* 

Wishing  your  patriotic  exertions  their  so 
much  merited  success, 

I am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

A PEASANT. 

* See  the  note  on  the  next  page. 


264 


LETTERS. 


No.  LXXXIX. 

TO  CHARLES  SHARPE,  ESQ.  OF 
H O DD  A M . 

Under  a fictitious  Signature,  enclosing  a 
ballad,  1790,  or  1791. 

It  is  true,  Sir,  you  are  a gentleman  of  rank 
and  fortune,  and  1 am  a poor  devil;  you  are  a 
feather  in  the  cap  of  society,  and  I am  a very 
hobnail  in  his  shoes:  yet  1 have  the  honor  to 
belong  to  the  same  family  with  you,  and  on  that 
score  I now  address  you.  You  will  perhaps 
suspect  that  1 am  going  to  claim  affinity  with 
the  ancient  and  honorable  house  of  Kilpatrick  : 
No,  no,  Sir  : I cannot  indeed  be  properly  said 
to  belong  to  any  house  or  even  any  province  or 
kingdom,  as  my  mother,  who  for  many  years 
was  spouse  to  a marching  regiment,  gave  me 
into  this  bad  world,  aboard  the  packet  boat, 
somewhere  between  Donaghadee  and  Portpat- 
rick.  By  our  common  family,  1 mean,  Sir,  the 
family  of  the  Muses.  I am  a fiddler  and  a poet ; 
and  you,  I am  told,  play  an  exquisite  violin, 
and  have  a standard  taste  in  the  Belles  Lettres. 
The  other  day  a brother  catgut  gave  n^  a charm- 
ing Scots  air  of  your  composition.  If  I was 
pleased  with  the  tune,  I was  in  raptures  with  the 
title  you  have  given  it ; and,  taking  up  the  idea 
I have  spun  it  into  three  stanzas  enclosed.  Will 
you  allow  me,  Sir,  to  present  you  them,  as  the 
dearest  offering  that  a misbegotten  son  of  pov- 
erty and  rhyme  has  to  give  ; I have  a longing 
to  take  you  by  the  hand  and  unburden  my  heart 
by  saying — Sir,  1 honor  you  as  a man  who 
supports  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  amid  an 
age  when  frivolity  and  avarice  have,  between 
them  debased  us  below  the  brutes  that  perish  !” 
But,  alas,  Sir  ! to  me  you  are  unapproachable. 
It  is  true,  the  Muses  baptized  me  in  Castalian 
streams,  but  the  thoughtless  gypsies  forgot  to 
give  me  a Name.  As  the  sex  have  served  many 
a good  fellow,  the  Nine  have  given  me  a great 
deal  of  pleasure,  but,  bewitching  jades!  they 
have  beggared  me.  Would  they  but  spare  me 
a little  of  their  cast  linen  ! were  it  only  to  put  it 
in  my  power  to  say  that  I have  a shirt  on  my  back! 
But  the  idle  wenches,  like  Solomon’s  lilies, 
“ they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin;”  So  I must 
e’en  continue  to  tie  my  remnant  of  a cravat,  like 
the  hangman’s  rope,  round  my  naked  throat, 
and  coax  my  galligaskins  to  keep  together  their 

♦This  letter  is  extracted  from  the  third  volume  of 
Sir  John  Sinclair’s  Statistics,  p.598. — It  was  enclos- 
ed to  Sir  John  by  Mr.  Riddel  himself,  in  the  follow- 
ing letter,  also  printed  there. 

“Sir  John,  I enclose  you  a letter,  written  by  Mr. 
Burns,  asan  addi’.ion  to  the  account  of  Dunscore  par- 
ish. It  contains  an  account  of  a small  library  which 
he  was  so  good  (at  my  desire)  as  to  set  op  foot,  in 
the  barony  of  Monkland,  or  Friar’s  Carse,  in  this 
parish.  As  its  utility  has  been  felt,  particularly  among 
the  younger  class  of  people.  I think,  that  if  a similar 
plan  were  established  in  the  different  parishes  of 
Scotland  it  would  tend  greatly  to  the  speedy  im- 
provement of  the  tenantry,  tradespeople,  and  work 
people.  Mr.  Burns  was  so  good  as  to  take  the  whole 
charge  of  this  small  concern.  lie  was  treasurer,  li- 
brarian, and  censor,  to  this  little  society,  who  will 
long  have  a grateful  sense  of  his  public  sp  r it  and 
exertions  for  their  improvement  and  information. 

I have  the  honor  to  be.  Sir  John, 

Yours,  most  s ncerely, 

HUBERT  RIDDEL. 

To  Sir  John  Sinclair  of  Ulster,  Bart. 


| many-colored  fragments.  As  to  the  affair  of 
shoes,  I have  given  that  up. — My  pilgrimages  in 
my  bailad- trade  from  town  to  town,  and  on  your 
stony-hearted  turnpikes  too.  are  what  not  even 
the  hide  of  Job’s  Behemoth  could  bear.  The 
coat  on  my  back  is  no  more  : I shall  not  speak 
evil  of  the  dead.  It  would  be  equally  unhand- 
some and  ungrateful  to  find  fault  with  my  old 
surtout,  which  so  kindly  supplies  and  conceals 
the  want  of  that  coat.  My  hat  indeed  is  a great 
favorite  ; and  though  I got  it  literally  for  an  old 
song,  I would  not  exchange  it  for  the  best  bea- 
ver in  Britain.  I was,  during  several  years,  a 
kind  of  factotem  servant  to  a country  clergyman 
where  I picked  up  a good  many  scraps  of  learn- 
ing, particularly  in  some  branches  of  the  math- 
ematics. Whenever  I feel  inclined  to  rest  my- 
self on  my  way,  I take  my  seat  under  a hedge, 
laying  my  poetic  wallet  on  my  one  side,  and 
my  fiddle  case  on  the  other,  and  placing  my  hat 
between  my  legs,  I can  by  means  of  its  brim 
or  rather  brims,  go  through  the  whole  doctrine 
of  the  Conic  Seciions. 

However,  Sir,  don’t  let  me  mislead  you,  as 
if  I would  interest  your  pity.  Fortune  has  so 
much  forsaken  me,  that  she  has  taught  me  to 
live  without  her  ; and  amid  ail  my  rags  and 
poverty,  I am  as  independent,  and  much  more 
happy  than  a monarch  of  the  world.  According 
to  the  hackneyed  metaphor,  I value  the  several 
actors  in  the  great  drama  of  life,  simply  as  they 
act  their  parts.  I can  look  on  a worthless 
fellow  of  a duke  with  unqualified  contempt ; 
and  can  regard  an  honest  scavenger  wi:h  sincere 
respect.  As  you,  Sir,  go  through  your  roll  with 
such  distinguished  merit,  permit  me  to  make 
one  in  the  chorus  of  universal  applause,  and  as 
sure  you  that,  with  the  highest  respect, 

1 have  the  honor  to  be,  &c. 


No.  XC. 

TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 

Ellisland,  llt/t  January,  1790. 
Dear  Brother, — 

I mean  to  take  advantage  of  the  frank,  though 
I have  not,  in  my  present  frame  of  mind,  much 
appetite  for  exertion  in  writing.  My  nerves  are 
in  a ****  state.  I feel  that  horrid  hypocondria 
pervading  every  atom  of  both  body  and  soul. 
This  farm  has  undone  my  enjoyment  of  myself. 
It  is  a ruinous  affair  on  all  hands.  But  let  it  go 
to****  ! I’ll  fight  it  out  and  be  off  with  it- 

We  have  gotten  a set  of  very  decent  players 
here  just  now.  1 have  seen  them  an  evening 
or  two.  David  Campbell,  in  Ayr,  wrote  to  me 
by  the  manager  of  the  company,  a Mr.  Suther- 
land, who  is  a man  of  apparent  worih.  On 
New- Year-day  evening  I gave  him  the  follow- 
ing prologue,*  which  he  spouted  to  his  audience 
with  applause — 

l can  no  more: — If  once  I was  clear  of  this  * 
***  farm,  I should  respire  more  at  ease. 


No.  XCI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  25 th  January,  1790. 

It  has  been  owing  to  unremitting  hurry  of  bu- 
* This  prologue  ip  printed  in  the  Poems  p.  61. 


LETTERS. 


265 


siness  that  I have  not  written  to  you,  Madam, 
long  ere  now.  My  health  is  greatly  better, 
and  I now  begin  once  more  to  share  in  satisfac- 
tion and  enjoyment  with  the  rest  of  my  fellow- 
creatures. 

Many  thanks,  my  much  esteemed  friend,  for 
your  kind  letters  ; but  why  will  you  make  me 
run  the  risk  of  being  contemptible  and  merce- 
nary in  my  own  eyes  ! When  I pique  myself 
on  my  independent  spirit,  I hope  it  is  neither 
poetic  license,  nor  poetic  rant  ; and  1 am  so 
flattered  with  the  honor  you  have  done  me,  in 
making  me  your  compeer  in  friendship  and 
friendly  correspondence,  that  I cannot  without 
pain,  and  a degree  of  mortification,  be  remind- 
ed of  the  real  inequality  between  our  situations,  j 

Most  sincerely  do  I rejoice  with  you,  dear  | 
Madam,  in  the  good  news  of  Anthony.  Not  j 
only  your  anxiety  about  his  fate,  but  my  own  j 
esteem  for  such  a noble,  warm-hearted  manly  | 
young  fellow,  in  the  little  1 had  of  his  acquaint-  ; 
ance,  has  interested  me  deeply  in  his  fortunes,  i 

Falconer,  the  unfortunate  author  of  the  Ship-  j 
wreck,  which  you  so  much  admire,  is  no  more.  | 
After  witnessing  the  dreadful  catastrophe  he  so  | 
feelingly  describes  in  his  poem,  and  after  weath- 
ering many  hard  gales  of  fortune,  he  went  to 
the  bottom  with  the  Aurora  frigate  ! I forget 
what  part  of  Scotland  had  the  honor  of  giving 
him  birth,  but  he  was  the  son  of  obscurity  and 
misfortune.*  He  was  one  of  those  daring,  ad- 
venturous spirits  which  Scotland,  beyond  any 
other  country.,  is  remarkable  for  producing. 
Little  does  the  fond  mother  think,  as  she  hangs 
delighted  over  the  sweet  little  leech  at  her  bo- 
som, where  the  poor  fellow  may  hereafter  wan- 
der, and  what  may  be  his  fate.  I remember  a 
stanza  in  an  old  Scottish  ballad,  which  notwith- 
standing its  rude  simplicity,  speaks  feelingly  to 
the  heart : 

“Little  did  my  mother  think, 

That  day  she  cradled  me, 

What  land  I was  to  travel  in. 

Or  what  death  I should  die.” 

Old  Scottish  songs  are,  you  know,  a favorite 
study  and  pursuit  of  mine  ; and  now  I am  on 
that  subject,  allow  me  to  give  you  two  stanzas 
of  another  old  simple  ballad,  which  I am  sure 
will  please  you.  The  catastrophe  of  the  piece 

♦Falconer  was  in  early  life  a sea  boy,  to  use  a 
word  of  Shakspeare,  on  board  a man-of-war,  in 
which  capacity  he  attracted  the  notice  of  Campbell, 
the  author  of  the  satire  on  Dr.  Johnson,  entitled 
Lcxiphanes,  then  purser  of  the  ship.  Campbell  took 
him  as  his  servant,  and  delighted  in  giving  him  in- 
struction ; and  when  Falconer  afterwards  acquired 
celebrity,  boasted  of  him  as  his  scholar.  The  Editor 
had  this  information  from  a surgeon  of  a man-of- 
war,  in  1777.  who  knew  both  Campbell  and  Falconer, 
and  who  himseif  per  shed  soon  after  by  shipwreck 
on  the  coast  of  America. 

Though  th  * death  of  Falconer  happened  so  lately 
as  1770  or  1771.  yet  in  the  biography  prefixed  by  Dr. 
Anderson  to  his  works,  in  the  complete  edition  ofthe 
Poets  of  Great  Britain,  it  is  said — ‘‘Ofthe  family, 
birthplace,  and  education  of  William  Falconer,  there 
are  no  memorials.”  On  the  authority  already  given, 
it  may  be  mentioned,  that  he  was  a native  of  one  of 
the  towns  on  the  coast  of  Fife  : and  that  his  parents 
who  had  suffered  some  misfortunes,  removed  to  one 
of  the  sea-ports  of  England,  where  they  both  died 
soon  after,  of  an  epidemic  fever,  leaving  poor  Fal- 
coner, then  a boy,  forlorn  and  destitute.  In  conse- 
quence of  which  he  entered  on  board  a man-of-war. 
These  last  circumstances  are,  however,  less  certain. 

— E. 


is  a poor  ruined  female  lamenting  her  fate.  She 
concludes  with  this  pathetic  wish  : 

“O  that  my  father  had  ne’er  on  me  smil’d; 

O that  my  mother  had  ne’er  to  me  sung! 

O that  rny  cradle  had  never  been  rock’d ; 

But  that  I had  died  w hen  I was  young ! 

O that  the  grave  it  were  my  bed ; 

My  blankets  were  my  winding  sheet : 

The  clocks  and  the  worms  my  bedfellows  a’ j 
And  O sae  sound  as  I should  sleep:” 

I do  not  remember  in  all  my  reading  to  have 
met  with  any  thing  more  truly  the  language  of 
misery  than  the  exclamation  in  the  last  line. 
Misery  is  like  love  ; to  speak  its  language  truly, 
the  author  must  have  fell  it. 

I am  every  day  expecting  the  doctor  to  give 
your  little  godson*  the  small  pox.  They  are 
rife  in  the  country,  and  1 tremble  for  his  fate. 
By  the  way,  I cannot  help  congratulating  you 
on  his  looks  and  spirit.  Every  person  who  sees 
him  acknowledges  him  to  be  the  finest,  hand- 
somest child  he  has  ever  seen.  1 am  myself 
delighted  with  the  manly  swell  of  his  little 
chest,  and  a certain  miniature  dignity  in  the  car- 
riage of  his  head,  and  the  glance  of  his  fine 
black  eye,  which  promise  the  undaunted  gal- 
lantry of  an  independent  mind. 

I thought  to  have  sent  you  some  rhymes,  but 
time  forbids.  I promise  you  poetry  until  you 
are  tired  of  it,  next  time  I have  the  honor  of  as- 
suring you  how  truly  I am,  &c. 


No.  XCII. 

FROM  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

28 th  January,  1790. 

In  some  instances  it  is  reckoned  unpardona- 
ble to  quote  any  one’s  own  words  ; but  the 
value  I have  for  your  friendship,  nothing  can 
more  truly  or  more  elegantly  express  than 

“Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear.” 

Having  written  to  you  twice  without  having 
heard  from  you,  I am  apt  to  think  my  letters 
have  miscarried.  My  conjecture  is  only  framed 
upon  the  chapter  of  accidents  turning  up  against 
me,  as  it  too  often  does,  in  the  trivial,  and,  I 
may  w’ith  truth  add,  the  more  important  affairs 
of  life ; but  I shall  continue  occasionally  to  in- 
form you  what  is  going  on  among  the  circle  of 
your  friends  in  these  parts.  In  these  days  of 
merriment,  I have  frequently  heard  your  name 
; proclaimed  at  the  jovial  board — under  the  roof 
of  our  hospitable  friend  at  Stenhouse-mills ; 
there  were  no 

“ Lingering  moments  numbered  with  care.” 

I saw  your  Address  to  the  New  Year  in  the 
Dumfries  Journal.  Of  your  productions  I shall 
say  nothing  ; but  my  acquaintance  allege  that 
when  your  name  is  mentioned,  which  every 
man  of  celebrity  must  know  often  happens,  I 
am  the  champion,  the  Mendoza,  against  all 
snarling  critics  and  narrow  minded  reptiles,  of 
whom  a few  on  this  planet  do  crawl. 

With  best  compliments  to  your  wife,  and  her 
black-eyed  sister,  I remain 

Yours,  &,c. 

♦ The  bard’s  second  son,  Francis.— E. 


266 


LETTERS. 


No.  XCIII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  13 th  February,  1790. 

I beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  and  much  valued 
friend,  for  wrning  io  you  on  this  very  unfash- 
ionable, unsightly  sheet — 

“My  poverty  but  not  my  will  consents.” 

But  to  make  amends,  since  of  modish  post  I 
have  none,  except  one  poor  widowed  half-sheet 
of  gilt,  which  lies  in  my  drawer  among  my 
plebeian  foolscap  pages,  like  ihe  widow  of  a 
man  of  fashion,  whom  that  unpolite  scoundrel, 
Necessity,  has  driven  from  Burgundy  and  Pine- 
apple, to  a dish  of  Bohea,  with  the  scandal- 
bearing help-mate  of  a village  priest ; or  a glass 
of  whisky-toddy,  with  the  ruby-nosed  yoke-fel- 
low of  a foot-padding  exciseman — I make  a 
vow  to  enclose  this  sheet-full  of  epistolary  frag- 
ments in  that  my  only  scrap  of  gilt  paper. 

I am  indeed  your  unworthy  debtor  for  three 
friendly  letters.  I ought  to  have  written  to  you 
long  ere  now,  but  it  is  a literal  fact,  I have 
scarcely  a spare  moment.  It  is  not  that  I will 
not  write  to  you  ; Miss  Burnet  is  not  more  dear 
to  her  guardian  angel,  nor  his  grace  the  Duke 

*=***•(=****  (o  p0WerS  Qf  *****  jjjy 

friend  Cunningham  to  me.  It  is  not  that  I can- 
not write  to  you ; should  you  doubt  it,  take  the 
following  fragment  which  was  intended  for  you 
some  time  ago.  and  be  convinced  that  I can  an- 
tithesize  sentiment,  and  circumvolute  periods, 
as  well  as  any  coiner  of  phrase  in  the  regions 
of  philology. 

December,  1789. 

My  Dear  Cunningham, 

Where  are  you  ? and  what  are  you  doing  ? 
Can  you  be  that  son  of  levity  who  takes  up  a 
friendship  as  he  takes  up  a fashion  ; or  are  you, 
like  some  other  of  the  worthiest  fellows  in  the 
world,  the  victim  of  indolence,  laden  with  fet- 
ters of  ever-increasing  weight  ? 

What  strange  beings  we  are  ! Since  we  have 
a portion  of  conscious  existence,  equally  capa- 
ble of  enjoying  pleasure,  happiness,  and  rap- 
ture, or  of  suffering  pain,  wretchedness,  and 
misery,  it  is  surely  wonhy  of  an  inquiry  whether 
there  be  not  such  a thing  as  a science  of  life, 
whether  method,  economy,  and  fertility  of  ex- 
pedients, be  not  applicable  to  enjoyment;  and 
whether  there  be  not  a want  of  dexterity  in 
leasure,  which  renders  our  little  scantling  of 
appiness  still  less  ; and  a profuseness  and  in- 
toxication in  bliss,  which  leads  to  satiety,  dis- 
ust,  and  self  abhorrence.  There  is  not  a doubt 
ut  that  health,  talents,  character,  decent  com- 
petency, respectable  friends,  are  real  subs  an- 
tial  blessings  ; and  yet  do  we  not  daily  see  those 
who  enjoy  many  or  all  of  these  good  things, 
contrive,  notwithstanding,  to  be  as  unhappy  as 
others  to  whose  lot.  few  of  them  have  fallen  ? I 
believe  one  great  source  of  this  mistake  or  mis- 
conduct is  owing  to  a certain  stimulus,  with  us 
called  ambition,  which  goads  us  up  the  hill  of 
life,  not  as  we  ascend  other  eminences,  for  the 
laudable,  curiosity  of  viewing  an  extended  land- 
scape, but  rather  for  the  dishonest  pride  of  look- 


ing down  on  others  of  our  fellow-creatures, 
seemingly  diminutive  in  humbler  stations,  &c. 
&>c. 


Sunday , 14 th  February,  1780. 

God  help  me  ! I am  now  obliged  to  join 

“ Night  to  day,  and  Sunday  to  the  week.’' 

If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  orthodox  faith  of 
these  churches,  I am  *****  past  redemption, 
and  what  is  worse,*****  to  all  eternity.  I am 
deeply  read  in  Boston's  Fourfold  State , Mar- 
shal on  Sanctification,  Guthrie's  Trial  of  a Sav- 
ing Interest,  &c  : but  “ there  is  no  balm  in 
Gilead,  there  is  no  physician  there,”  for  me; 
so  I shall  e’en  turn  Arminian,  and  trust  to  ‘‘sin- 
cere, though  imperfect  obedience.” 


Tuesday,  1 6th. 

Luckily  for  me  I was  prevented  from  the 
discussion  ofthe  knotty  point  at  which  I had  just 
made  a full  stop.  All  my  fears  and  cares  are  of 
this  world  : if  there  is  another,  an  honest  man 
has  nothing  to  fear  from  it.  I hate  a man  that 
wishes  to  be  a Deist ; but,  I fear  every  fair  un- 
prejudiced inquirer  must  in  some  degree  be  a 
Sceptic.  It  is  not  that  there  are  any  very  stag- 
gering arguments  against  the  immortality  of 
man  ; but  like  electricity,  phlogiston,  &c.  the 
subject  is  so  involved  in  darkness,  that  we  want 
data  togo  upon.  One  thing  frightens  me  much  : 
that  we  are  to  live  forever,  seems  too  good 
news  to  be  true.  That  we  are  to  enter  into  a 
new  scene  of  existence,  where  exempt  from  want 
and  pain,  we  shall  enjoy  ourselves  and  our 
friends  without  satiety  or  separation — how  much 
should  I be  indebted  to  any  one  who  could  fully 
assure  me  that  this  was  certain. 

* * * * 

My  time  is  once  more  expired.  I will  write 
to  Mr.  C leghorn  soon.  God  bless  him  and  ail 
his  concerns.  And  may  all  the  powers  that  pre- 
side over  conviviality  and  friendship,  be  present 
with  all  their  kindest  influence,  when  the  bear- 
er of  this,  Mr.  Syme.  and  you  meet ! I wish  I 
could  also  make  one. — I think  we  should  be  * 
* * * 

Finally,  brethren,  farewell ! Whatsoever 
things  are  lovely,  wha'soever  things  are  gentle, 
whatsoever  things  are  charitable,  whatsoever 
things  are  kind,  think  on  these  things,  and  think 
on 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


No.  XCIV. 

TO  MR.  HILL. 

Ellisland,  2d  March,  1790. 

At  a late  meeting  of  the  Monkland  Friendly 
Society,  it  was  resolved  to  augment  their  libra- 
ry by  the  following  books,  which  you  were  to 
send  us  as  soon  as  possible: — The  Mirror , The 
Lounger,  Man  of  Feeling,  Man  of  the  World, 
(these  for  my  own  sake,  l wish  to  have  by  the 
first  carrier,)  Knox's  History  of  the  Reforma - 


LETTERS. 


267 


lion;  Rae's  History  of  the  Rebellion  in  1715; 
any  good  History  of  the  Rebellion  in  1745  ; a 
Display  of  the  Secession  Act  and  Testimony, 
by  Mr.  Gibb  ; Hervey's  Meditations  ; Bever- 
idge's Thoughts  ; and  another  copy  of  Watson's 
Body  of  Divinity. 

1 wrote  to  Mr.  A.  Masterton  three  or  four 
months  ago  to  pay  some  money  he  owed  me  in- 
to your  hands,  and  lately  1 wrote  to  you  to  the 
same  purpose,  but  I have  heard  from  neither 
one  nor  the  other  of  you. 

In  addition  to  the  books  I commissioned  in 
my  last,  I want  very  much  An  Index  to  the 
Excise  Laws  or  an  Abridgment  of  all  the  Stat- 
utes now  in  force  relative  to  the  Excise,  by  Jel- 
lenger  Symons  ; I want  three  copies  of  this 
book  ; if  it  is  now  to  be  had,  cheap  or  dear,  get 
it  for  me.  An  honest  country  neighbor  of  mine 
wants,  too,  A Family  Bible,  the  larger  the  bet- 
ter, but  second-handed,  for  he  does  not  choose 
to  give  above  ten  shillings  for  the  book.  1 want 
likewise  for  myself  as  you  can  pick  them  up, 
second- handed  or  cheap,  copies  of  Otway's 
Dramatic  Works,  Ben  Jonson's,  Drydcn's,  Con- 
greve's, Wycherley's,  Vanburgh' s,  Cibber's,  or 
any  Dramatic  Ivorks  of  the  more  modern, 
Mucklin,  Garrick,  Foote,  Coleman,  or  Sheri- 
dan. A good  copy  too,  of  Moliere,  in  French, 
I much  want.  Any  other  good  dramatic  au- 
thors in  that  language  I want  also,  but  comic 
authors  chiefly,  though  I should  wish  to  have 
Racine,  Corneille,  and  Voltaire  too.  I am  in 
no  hurry  for  all,  or  any  of  these  ; but  if  you  ac- 
cidentally meet  with  them  very  cheap,  get  them 
lor  me. 

And  now  to  quit  the  dry  walk  of  business,  how 
do  you  do,  my  dear  friend,  ? and  how  is  Mrs. 
Hill?  I trust,  if  now  and  then  not  so  elegantly 
handsome,  at  least  as  amiable,  and  sings  as 
divinely  as  ever.  My  good  wife,  too.  has  a 
charming  “wood-note  wild  now  could  we 
four 

# # * * 

I am  out  of  all  patience  with  this  vile  world 
for  one  thing.  Mankind  are  by  nature  benevo- 
lent creatures.  Except  in  a few  scoundrelly  in- 
stances, I do  not  think  that  avarice  of  the  good 
things  wre  chance  to  have,  is  born  with  us ; but 
we  are  placed  here  amid  so  much  nakedness, 
and  hunger,  and  poverty,  and  want,  that  we  are 
under  a cursed  necessity  of  studying  selfishness 
in  order  that  we  may  exist  ! Still  there  are  in 
every  age,  a few  souls,  that  all  the  wants  and 
woes  of  this  life  cannot  debase  to  selfishness 
or  even  to  the  necessary  alloy  of  caution 
and  prudence.  If  ever  I am  in  danger  of  vanity 
it  is  when  I contemplate  myself  on  this  side  of 
my  disposition  and  character.  God  knows  I am 
no  saint ; I have  a whole  host  of  follies  and  sins 
to  answer  for  ; but  if  I could,  and  I believe  1 do 
it  as  far  as  I can,  I would  wipe  away  all  tears 
from  all  eyes. — Adieu ! 


No.  XCV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  19r/t  April,  1790. 

I have  just  now,  my  ever-honored  friend,  en- 
joyed a very  high  luxury,  in  reading  a paper  of 
the  Lounger.  Y ou  know  my  national  prejudices. 


| I had  often  read  and  admired  the  Spectator,  Ad - 
, venturer,  Rambler,  and  World  ; but  still  with  a 
j certain  regret  that  they  were  so  thoroughly  and 
j entirely  English.  Alas!  have  I often  said  to  my- 
. self,  what  are  all  the  boasted  advantages  which 
j my  country  reaps  from  the  union,  that  can  coun- 
j terbalance  the  annihilation  of  her  independence, 

| and  even  her  very  name  ! I often  repeat  that 
i couplet  of  my  favorite  poet,  Goldsmith — 

“ States  of  native  liberty  possess’d, 

Tho’  very  poor,  may  yet  be  veiy  bless’d.” 

Nothing  can  reconcile  me  to  the  common 
terms  “English  ambassador,  English  court,” 
&c.  And  1 am  out  of  all  patience  to  see  that 
equivocal  character  Hastings  impeached  by  “ the 
Commons  of  England.”  Tell  me,  my  friend, 
is  this  weak  prejudice?  I believe  in  my  consci- 
ence such  ideas  as,  “ my  country  ; her  indepen- 
j dence  ; her  honor  ; the  illustrious  names  that 
| mark  the  history  of  my  native  land  &c.  I be- 
lieve these,  among  your  men  of  the  world,  men 
| who  in  fact  guide  for  the  most  part  and  govern 
our  world,  are  looked  on  as  so  many  modifica- 
tions of  wrongheadedness.  They  know  the  use 
of  bawling  out  such  terms,  to  rouse  or  lead  the 
rabble  ; but  for  their  own  private  use  ; with  al- 
most all  the  ablest  statesmen  that  ever  existed, 
or  now  exist,  when  they  lalk  of  right  and  wrong 
they  only  mean  proper  and  improper,  and  their 
measure  of  conduct  is  not  what  they  ought,  but 
what  they  dare.  For  the  truth  of  this  I shall 
not  ransack  the  history  of  nations,  but  appeal  to 
one  of  the  ablest  judges  of  men.  and  himself  one 
of  the  ablest  men  that  ever  lived — the  celebra- 
ted Earl  of  Chesterfield.  In  fact,  a man  who 
could  thoroughly  control  his  vices  whenever 
they  interfered  with  his  interests,  and  who  could 
completely  put  on  the  appearance  of  every  virtue 
as  of  en  as  it  suited  his  purposes,  is,  on  the  Stan- 
hopian  plan,  the  perfect  man  ; a man  to  lead 
nations.  But  are  great  abilities,  complete  with- 
out a flaw,  and  polished  without  a blemish,  the 
standard  of  human  excellence  ? This  is  certain- 
ly the  staunch  opinion  of  men  of  the  world  ; but 
I call  on  honor,  virtue,  and  w'orth,  to  give  the 
stygian  doctrine  a loud  negative  ! However,  this 
must  be  allowed,  that  if  you  abstract  from  man 
the  idea  of  existence  beyond  the  grave,  then  the 
true  measure  of  human  conduct  is  proper  and 
improper  : Virtue  and  vice  as  dispositions  of  the 
heart,  are,  in  that  case,  of  scarcely  the  same 
import  and  value  to  the  world  at  large,  as  har- 
mony and  discord  in  the  modifica  ions  of  sound  ; 
and  a delicate  sense  of  honor,  like  a nice  ear  for 
music,  though  it  may  sometimes  give  the  pos- 
sessor an  ecstacy  unknown  to  the  coarser  organs 
of  the  herd,  yet  considering  the  harsh  gratings 
and  inharmonic  jars,  in  this  iil -timed  sta  e of  be- 
ing, it  is  odds  but  the  individual  would  be  as 
happy,  and  certainly  would  be  as  much  respected 
by  the  true  judges  of  society,  as  it  would  then 
stand,  without  either  a good  ear  or  a good  heart. 

You  must  know  I have  just  met  with  the 
Mirror  and  Lounger  for  the  first  time,  and  I am 
quite  in  raptures  with  them  ; I should  be  glad  to 
have  your  opinion  of  some  of  the  papers.  The 
one  I have  just  read,  Lounger,  No.  61  has  cost 
me  more  honest  tears  than  anything  I have  read 
of  a long  time.  M'Kenzie  has  been  called  the 
Addison  of  the  Scots  ; and  in  my  opinion  Addi- 
son would  not  be  hurt  at  the  comparison.  If  he 
has  not  Addison’s  exquisite  humor,  he  ascer- 


268 


LETTERS. 


tainly  outdoes  him  in  the  tender  and  pathetic. 
His  Man  of  Feeling,  (but  I am  not  counsel- 
learned  in  the  laws  of  criticism,)  I estimate  as 
the  first  performance  in  its  kind,  I ever  saw. 
From  what  book,  moral,  or  even  pious,  will 
the  susceptible  young  mind  receive  impressions 
more  congenial  to  humanity  and  kindness,  gen- 
erosity and  benevolence  ; in  short,  more  of  all 
that  ennobles  the  soul  to  herself,  or  endears  her 
to  others-^than  from  the  simple,  affecting  tale  of 
poor  Harley  ? 

Still,  with  all  my  admiration  of  M’Kenzie’s 
writings,  I do  not  know  if  they  are  the  fittest 
reading  for  a young  man  who  is  about,  to  set  out, 
as  the  phrase  is,  to  make  his  way  into  life.  Do 
not  you  think,  Madam,  that  among  the  few  fa- 
vored of  Heaven  in  the  structure  of  their 
minds  (for  such  there  certainly  are,)  there 
may  be  a purity,  a tenderness,  a dignity,  an 
elegance  of  soul,  which  are  of  no  use,  nay,  in 
some  degree,  absolutely  disqualifying  for  the 
truly  important  business  of  making  a man’s  way 
into  life.  If  I am  not  much  mistaken,  my  gal- 
lant young  friend,  A*****  is  very  much  under 
these  disqualifications  ; and  for  the  young  fe- 
males of  a family  I could  mention,  well  may 
they  excite  parental  solicitude;  for  I,  a common  I 
acquaintance,  or  as  my  vanity  will  have  it,  an  I 
humble  friend,  have  often  trembled  for  a turn  of! 
mind  which  may  render  them  eminently  happy 
— or  peculiarly  miserable  ! 

I have  been  manufacturing  some  verses  late- 
ly : but  as  I have  got  the  most  hurried  season 
of  excise-business  over,  I hope  to  have  more 
leisure  to  transcribe  any  thing  that  may  show 
how  much  I have  the  honour  to  be,  Madam, 
yours,  &c. 


No.  XCVI. 

FROM  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh , 25 th  May,  1789. 
My  Dear  Burns, — 

I am  much  indebted  to  you  for  your  last 
friendly  epistle,  and  it  shall  make  a part  of  the 
vanity  of  my  composition,  to  retain  your  corres- 
pondence through  life.  It  was  remarkable  your 
introducing  the  name  of  Miss  Burnet,  at  a time 
when  she  was  in  such  ill  health : and  I am  sure 
it  will  grieve  your  gentle  heart,  to  hear  of  her 
being  in  the  last  stage  of  a consumption.  Alas  ! 
that  so  much  beauty,  innocence,  and  virtue, 
should  be  nipped  in  the  bud.  Hers  was  the 
smile  of  cheerfulness — of  sensibility,  not  of  al- 
lurement ; and  her  elegance  of  manners  cor- 
responded with  the  purity  and  elevation  of  her 
mind. 

How  does  your  friendly  muse  ? I am  sure 
she  still  retains  her  affection  for  you,  and  that 
you  have  many  of  her  favors  in  your  possession 
which  I have  not  seen.  1 weary  much  to  hear 
from  you. 

* * * * 

I beseech  you  do  not  forget  me. 

* * * * 

I most  sincerely  hope  all  your  concerns  in  life 
prosper,  and  that  your  roof-tree  enjoys  the  bles- 
sing of  good  health.  All  your  friends  here  are 


well,  among  whom,  and  not  the  least,  is  your  ac- 
quaintance, Cleghorn.  As  for  myself,  I am  well 
as  far  as  *******  will  let  a man  be,  but  with 
these  I am  happy. 

* * * * 

When  you  meet  with  my  very  agreeable 
friend,  J Syme,  give  him  for  me  a hearty  squeeze 
and  bid  God  bless  him. 

Is  there  any  probability  of  your  being  soon  in 
Edinburgh  ? 


No.  XCVII. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Dumfries  Excise-office,  14 th  July,  1790. 
Sir, — 

Coming  into  town  this  morning,  to  attend  my 
duty  in  this  office,  it  being  collection-day,  I met 
with  a gentleman  who  tells  me  he  is  on  his  way 
to  London  ; so  l take  the  opportunity  of  writing 
to  you,  as  franking  is  at  present  under  a tempo- 
rary death.  1 shall  have  some  snatches  of  leis- 
ure through  the  day,  amid  our  horrid  business 
and  bustle,  and  I shall  improve  them  as  well  as 
1 can  ; but  let  my  letter  be  as  stupid  as  * 

* * *,  as  miscellaneous  as  a newspaper, 

as  short  as  a hungry  grace-before-meat,  or  as 
long  as  a law  paper  in  the  Douglass  cause  ; as 
ill-spelt  as  country  John’s  billet-doux,  or  as  un- 
sightly a scrawl  as  Betty  Byre-Mucker’s  answer 
to  it — I hope,  considering  circumstances,  you 
will  forgive  it ; and,  as  it  will  put  you  to  no  ex- 
pense of  postage,  I shall  have  the  less  reflection 
about  it. 

I am  sadly  ungrateful  in  not  returning  you 
thanks  for  your  most  valuable  present,  Zeluco. 
In  fact  you  are  in  some  degree  blameable  for 
my  neglect.  You  were  pleased  to  express  a 
wish  for  my  opinion  of  the  work,  which  so  flat- 
tered me  that  nothing  less  would  serve  my 
overweening  fancy, than  a formal  criticism  on  the 
book.  In  fact,  I have  gravely  planned  a com- 
parative view  of  you.  Fielding,  Richardson,  and 
Smollet,  in  your  different  qualities  and  merits 
as  novel- writers.  This,  I own,  betrays  my  ri- 
diculous vanity,  and  I may  probably  never  bring 
the  business  to  bear ; but  I am  fond  of  the  spir- 
it young  Elihu  show’s  in  the  book  of  Job, — 
“ And  I said,  I will  also  declare  my  opinion.” 
I have  quite  disfigured  my  copy  of  the  book 
with  my  annotations.  1 never  take  it  up  with- 
out at  the  same  time  taking  my  pencil,  and 
marking  with  asterisms,  parentheses,  &c. 
wherever  I meet  with  an  original  thought,  a ner- 
vous remark  on  life  and  manners,  a remarkably 
well  turned  period,  or  a character  sketched  with 
uncommon  precision. 

Though  I shall  hardly  think  of  fairly  waiting 
out  my  “ Comparative  View,”  I shall  certainly 
trouble  you  with  my  remarks,  such  as  they  are. 

I have  just  received  from  my  gentleman,  that 
horrid  summons  in  the  book  of  Revelation — 
“That  time  shall  be  no  more !” 

The  little  collection  of  sonnets  have  some 
charming  poetry  in  them.  If  indeed  I am  in- 
debted to  the  fair  author  for  the  book,  and  not, 
as  I rather  suspect,  to  a celebrated  author  of 
the  other  sex,  1 should  certainly  have  written  to 


LETTERS. 


<he  lady,  with  my  grateful  acknowledgments, 
and  my  own  ideas  of  the  comparative  excellence 
of  her  pieces.  1 would  do  this  last,  not  from  any 
vanity  of  thinking  that  my  remarks  could  be  ol 
much  consequence  to  Mrs.  Smith,  but  merely 
from  my  own  feeling  as  an  author,  doing  as  I 
would  be  done  by. 


No.  XCVIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

8 th  Aug.  1790. 

Dear  Madam, — 

After  a long  day’s  toil,  plague  and  care,  I sit 
down  to  write  to  you.  Ask  me  not  why  I have 
delayed  it  so  long  ? It  was  owing  to  hurry,  in- 
dolence, and  fifty  other  things  ; in  short  to  any 
thing — but  forgetfulness  of  la  plus  amiable  de 
son  sexe.  By  the  by,  you  are  indebted  your 
best  courtesy  to  me  for  this  last  compliment,  as 
I pay  it  from  my  sincere  conviction  of  its  truth — 
a quality  rather  rare  in  compliments  of  these 
grinning,  bowing,  scraping  times. 

Well,  I hope  writing  to  you  will  ease  a little 
my  troubled  soul.  Sorely  has  it  been  bruised 
to-day  ! A ci-devant  friend  of  mine,  and  an  in- 
timate acquaintance  of  yours,  has  given  my  feel- 
ings a wound  that  I perceive  will  gangrene  dan- 
gerously ere  it  cure.  He  has  wounded  my  pride! 

* * * * 


No.  XCIX. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland , Sth  August,  1790. 

Forgive  me  my  once  dear,  and  ever  dear 
friend,  my  seeming  negligence.  You  cannot 
sit  down  and  fancy  the  busy  life  I lead. 

I laid  down  my  goose  feather  to  beat  my 
brains  for  an  apt  simile,  and  had  some  thoughts 
of  a country  grannurri  at  a family  christening ; a 
bride  on  the  marketday  before  her  marriage  ! * 

********  * 
* * * a tavern-keeper  at  an  election 

dinner ; &c.  &c. — but  the  resemblance  that 
hits  my  fancy  best,  is  that  blackguard  miscreant 
Satan,  who  roams  about  like  a roaring  lion,  seek- 
ing, searching  whom  lie  may  devour.  Howev- 
er, tossed  about  as  I am,  if  I choose  (and  who 
would  not  choose)  to  bind  down  with  the  cram- 
pets  of  attention  the  brazen  foundation  of  integ- 
rity, I may  rear  up  the  superstructure  of  Inde- 
pendence, and,  from  its  daring  turrets,  bid  defi- 
ance to  the  storms  of  fate.  And  is  not  this  a 
“ consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished  ?” 

“Thy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share  ; 

Lord  of  the  lion-heart  and  eagle-eye  ! 

Thy  steps  I follow  with  my  bosom  bare, 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky!” 

Are  not  these  noble  verses  ? They  are  the 


269 

introduction  of  SmolleVs  Ode  to  Independence  : 
if  you  have  not  seen  the  poem,  I will  send  it  to 
you.  How  wretched  is  the  man  that  hangs  on 
by  the  favors  of  the  great.  To  shrink  from  ev- 
ery dignity  of  man,  at  the  approach  of  a lordly 
piece  of  self-consequence,  who  amid  all  his  tin- 
sel glitter  and  stately  hauteur  is  but  a creature 
formed  as  thou  art — and  perhaps  not  so  well 
formed  as  thou  art — came  into  the  world  a pu- 
ling infant  as  thou  didst,  and  must  go  out  of  it  as 
i all  men  must,  a naked  corse.* 

* * * * 


No.  C. 

FROM  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh,  1st  September,  1790. 

How  does  my  dear  friend,  much  I languish  to 
hear 

His  fortune,  relations,  and  all  that  are  dear  ! 
With  love  of  the  Muses  so  strongly  still  smit- 
ten, 

I meant  this  epistle  in  verse  to  have  written, 

But  from  age  and  infirmity  indolence  flows, 

And  this,  much  I fear  will  restore  me  to  prose. 
Anon  to  my  business  I wish  to  proceed, 

Dr.  Anderson  guides  and  provokes  me  to  speed, 
A man  of  integrity,  genius  and  worth, 

Who  soon  a performance  intends  to  set  forth  : 
A work  miscellaneous,  extensive,  and  free, 
Which  will  weekly  appear  by  the  name  of  the 
Bee, 

Of  this  from  himself  I enclose  you  a plan, 

And  hope  you  will  give  what  assistance  you 
can. 

Entangled  with  business,  and  haunted  with 
care, 

In  which  more  or  less  human  nature  must 
share, 

Some  moments  of  leisure  the  Muses  will  claim 
A sacrifice  due  to  amusement  and  fame. 

The  Bee,  which  sucks  honey  from  every  gay 
bloom, 

With  some  rays  of  your  genius  her  work  may 
illume, 

Whilst  the  flower  whence  her  honey  spontane- 
ously flows, 

As  fragrantly  smells,  and  as  vig’rously  grows. 

Now  with  kind  gratulations  ’tis  time  to  con- 
clude, 

And  add  your  promotion  is  here  understood  ; 
Thus  free  from  the  servile  employ  of  excise. 
Sir ! 

We  hope  soon  to  hear  you  commence  Supervi- 
sor : 

You  then  more  at  leisure,  and  free  from  control 
May  indulge  the  strong  passion  that  reigns  in 
your  soul ; 

But  I,  feeble  I,  must  to  nature  give  way, 
Devoted  cold  death’s,  and  longevity’s  prey. 
From  verses  though  languid  my  thoughts  must 
unbend, 

Though  still  I remain  your  affectionate  friend, 
THO.  BLACKLOCK. 

* The  preceding  letter  explains  the  feelings  under 
which  this  was  written.  The  strain  of  ind  gnant  in- 
vective goes  on  some  time  longer  in  the  style  which 
our  Bard  was  too  apt  to  indulge,  and  of  which  the 
reader  has  already  seen  so  much. — E. 


270 


LETTERS. 


No.  Cl. 

EXTRACT  OF  A LETTER 
FROM  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh,  14 tli  October,  1790 

T lately  received  a letter  from  our  friend  B* 
****+*♦*, — what  a charming  fellow  lost  to  soci- 
ety— born  to  great  expectations — with  superior 
abilities,  a pure  heart,  and  untainted  morals, 
his  fate  in  life  has  been  hard  indeed — still  I am 
persuaded  he  is  happy  : not  like  the  gallant,  the 
gay  Lothario,  but  in  the  simplicity  of  rural  en- 
joyment, unmixed  with  regret  at  the  remem- 
brance of  “ the  days  of  other  years.”* 

I saw  Mr.  Dunbar  put  under  the  cover  of 
your  newspaper  Mr.  Wood’s  poem  on  Thomson. 
This  poem  has  suggested  an  idea  to  me  which 
you  alone  are  capable  to  execute — a song  adapt- 
ed to  each  season  of  the  year  The  task  is  dif- 
ficult, but  the  theme  is  charming  : should  you 
succeed,  I will  undertake  to  get  new  music  wor- 
thy of  the  subject.  What  a fine  field  for  your 
imagination  ! and  who  is  there  alive  can  draw 
so  many  beauties  from  Nature  and  pastoral  im- 
agery as  yourself?  It  is,  by  the  way,  surpris- 
ing, that  there  does  not  exist,  so  far  as  I know, 
a proper  song  for  each  season.  We  have  songs 
on  hunting,  fishing,  skating,  and  one  autumnal 
song,  Harvest  Home.  As  your  Muse  is  neither 
spavined  nor  rusty,  you  may  mount  the  hill  of 
Parnassus,  and  return  with  a sonnet  in  your 
pocket  for  every  season.  For  my  suggestions, 
if  I be  rude,  correct  me  ; if  impertinent,  chas- 
tise me  ; if  presuming,  despise  me.  But  if  you 
blend  all  my  weaknesses,  and  pound  out  one 
grain  of  insincerity,  then  I am  not  thy 

Faithful  Friend,  &c. 


No.  CU. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

November , 1790. 

“ As  cold  waters  to  a thirsty  soul,  so  is  good 
news  from  a far  country.” 

Fate  has  long  owed  me  a letter  of  good  news 
from  you  in  return  for  the  many  tidings  of  sor- 
row which  I have  received.  In  this  instance  I 
most  cordially  obey  the  apostle — “ Rejoice  with 
them  that  do  rejoice,” — for  me  to  sing  for  joy 
is  no  new  thing  ; but  to  preach  lor  joy,  as  I have 
done  in  the  commencement  of  this  epistle,  is  a 
pitch  of  extravagant  rapture  to  which  I never  rose 
before. 

I read  your  letter — T literally  jumped  for  joy — 
How  could  such  a mercurial  creature  as  a poet 
lumpishly  keep  his  seat  on  the  receipt  of  the 
best  news  from  his  best  friend  ? I seized  my 
gilt-headed  Wangee  rod,  an  instrument  indis- 
pensibly  necessary  in  my  left  hand,  in  the  mo- 
ment of  inspiration  and  rapture  ; and  stride, 
stride — quick  and  quicker — out  skipped  I among 
the  broomy  banks  of  Nith,  to  muse  over  my 
joy  by  retail.  To  keep  within  the  bounds  of  prose 
was  impossible,  Mrs.  Little’s  is  a more  elegant 

* The  person  here  alluded  to  is  Mr.  S.  who  engaged 
the  Editor  in  this  undertaking.  See  the  Dedication. 

E. 


I but  not  a more  sincere  compliment,  to  the  sweet 
little  fellow,  than  I,  extempore,  almost,  poured 
out  to  him  in  the  following  verses.  See  Poems 
p.  55. — On  the  Birth  of  a.  Posthumous  Child. 


I am  much  flattered  by  your  approbation  of 
my  Tam  o'  Shanter,  which  you  express  in  your 
former  letter;  though,  by  the  by,  you  load  me 
in  that  letter  with  accusations  heavy  and  many; 
to  all  which  I plead  not  guilty  ! Your  book  is, 
I hear,  on  the  road  to  reach  me.  As  to  printing 
of  poetry,  when  you  prepare  it  for  the  press, 
you  have  only  to  spell  it  right,  and  place  the  cap- 
ital  letters  properly : as  to  the  punctuation,  the 
printers  do  that  themselves. 

I have  a copy  of  Tam  o'  Shanter  ready  to  send 
you  by  the  first  opportunity  ; it  is  too  heavy  to 
send  by  post. 

I heard  of  Mr.  Corbet  lately.  He,  in  conse- 
quence of  your  recommendation,  is  most  zealous 
to  serve  me.  Please  favor  me  soon  with  an  ac- 
count of  your  good  folks  ; if  Mrs-  H.  is  recover- 
ing, and  the  young  gentleman  doing  well. 


No.  CIII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  23 d January , 1791. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  to  you, 
my  dear  friend  ! As  many  of  the  good  things 
of  this  life  as  is  consistent  with  the  usual  mix- 
ture of  good  and  evil  in  the  cup  of  being. 

I have  just  finished  a poem,  which  you  will 
receive  enclosed.  It  is  my  first  essay  in  the 
way  of  tales. 

I have  for  these  several  months  been  ham- 
mering at  an  elegy  on  the  amiable  and  accom- 
plished Miss  Burnet.  I have  got,  and  can  get 
no  farther  than  the  following  fragment,  on  which 
please  give  me  your  strictures.  In  all  kinds  of 
poetic  composition  I set  great  store  by  your 
opinion  : but  in  sentimental  verses,  in  the  poe- 
try of  the  heart,  no  Roman  Catholic  ever  set 
more  value  on  the  infallibility  of  the  Holy  Fa- 
ther than  I do  on  yours. 

I mean  the  introductory  couplets  as  text 
verses.* 

* * * * 

Let  me  hear  from  you  soon.  Adieu ! 


No.  CIV. 

TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

17 th  January , 1791. 

Take  these  two  guineas,  and  place  them  over 
against  that  ******  account  of  yours ! which 
has  gagged  my  mouth  these  five  or  six  months ! 
I can  as  little  write  good  things  as  apologies  to 
the  man  I owe  money  to.  O the  supreme  curse 
of  making  three  guineas  do  the  business  of  five  ! 
Not  all  the  labors  of  Hercules ; not  all  the  He- 
brews’ three  centuries  of  Egyptian  bondage 
were  such  an  insuperable  business,  such  an  ** 

* Immediately  after  this  were  copied  the  first  six 
stanzas  of  the  El*gy  given  in  p.  62,  of  the  Poem6. 


LETTERS. 


271 


******  task ! Poverty  ! thou  half-sister  of 
death,  thou  cousin-german  of  hell ! where  shall 
I find  force  of  execration  equal  to  the  amplitude 
of  thy  demerits?  Oppressed  by  thee,  the  ven- 
erable ancient,  grown  hoary  in  the  practice  of 
every  virtue,  laden  with  years  and  wretched- 
ness, implores  a little — little  aid  to  support  his 
existence  from  a stony-hearted  son  of  Mam- 
mon. whose  sun  of  prosperity  never  knew  a 
cloud  ; and  is  by  him  denied  and  insulted.  Op- 
pressed by  thee,  the  man  of  sentiment,  whose 
heart  glows  with  independence,  and  melts  with 
sensibility,  inly  pines  under  the  neglect,  or 
writhes  in  bitterness  of  soul  under  the  contume- 
ly of  arrogant,  unfeeling  wealth.  Oppressed 
by  thee,  the  6on  of  genius,  whose  ill-starred 
ambition  plants  him  at  the  tables  of  the  fash- 
ionable and  polite,  must  see  in  suffering  silence 
his  remark  neglected,  and  his  person  despised, 
while  shallow  greatness,  in  his  idiot  attempts 
at  wit,  shall  meet  with  countenance  and  ap- 
plause. Nor  is  it  only  the  family  of  worth  that 
have  reason  to  complain  of  thee  ; the  children 
of  folly  and  vice,  though  in  common  with  thee 
the  offspring  of  evil,  smart  equally  under  thy 
rod.  Owing  to  thee,  the  man  of  unfortunate 
disposition  and  neglected  education,  is  con- 
demned as  a fool  for  hie  dissipation,  despised 
and  shunned  as  a needy  wretch,  when  his  fol- 
lies, as  usual,  bring  him  to  want ; and  when 
his  unprincipled  necessities  drive  him  to  dis- 
honest practices,  he  is  abhorred  as  a miscreant, 
and  perishes  by  the  justice  of  his  country.  But 
far  otherwise  is  the  lot  of  the  man  of  family 
and  fortune.  His  early  follies  and  extravagance 
are  spirit  and  fire  ; his  consequent  wants  are 
the  embarrassments  of  an  honest  fellow ; and 
when,  to  remedy  the  matter,  he  has  gained  a 
legal  commission  to  plunder  distant  provinces, 
or  massacre  peaceful  nations,  he  returns,  per- 
haps, laden  with  the  spoils  of  rapine  and  mur- 
der ; lives  wicked  and  respected,  and  dies  a ** 
****  and  a lord.  Nay,  worst  of  all,  alas,  for 
helpless  woman  ! the  needy  prostitute,  who  has 
shivered  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  waiting  to 
earn  the  wages  of  casual  prostitution,  is  left 
neglected  and  insulted,  ridden  down  by  the 
chariot-wheels  of  the  coroneted  Rip,  hurrying 
on  to  the  guilty  assignation  ; she  who  without 
the  same  necessities  to  plead,  riots  nightly  in 
the  same  guilty  trade. 

Well!  Divines  may  say  of  it  what  they 
please,  but  execration  is  to  the  mind  what 
phlebotomy  is  to  the  body ; the  vital  sluices  of 
both  are  wonderfully  relieved  by  their  respec- 
tive evacuations. 


No.  CV. 

FROM  A.  F.  TYTLER,  ESQ. 

Edinburgh,  12 tk  March,  1791. 

Dear  Sir, — 

Mr.  Hill  yesterday  put  into  my  hands  a sheet 
of  Grose's  Antiquities,  containing  a poem  of 
yours  entitled,  Tam  o' Shanter,  a tale.  The  very 
high  pleasure  I have  received  from  the  perusal 
of  this  admirable  piece,  I feel,  demands  the 
warmest  acknowledgments.  Hill  tells  me  he 
is  to  send  off  a packet  for  you  this  day  ; I can- 
not resist,  therefore,  putting  on  paper  what  1 


must  have  told  you  in  person,  had  I met  with 
you  after  the  recent  perusal  of  your  tale,  which 
is,  that  I feel  I owe  you  a debt,  which,  if  un- 
discharged, would  reproach  me  with  ingrati- 
tude. 1 have  seldom  in  my  life  tasted  of  higher 
enjoyment  from  any  work  of  genius,  than  I 
have  received  from  this  composition  : and  1 am 
much  mistaken,  if  this  poem  alone,  had  you 
never  written  another  syllable,  w'ouid  not  have 
been  sufficient  to  have  transmitted  your  name 
down  to  posterity  with  high  reputation.  In  the 
introductory  part,  where  you  paint  the  charac- 
ter of  your  hero,  and  exhibit  him  at  the  ale- 
house ingle,  with  his  tipling  cronies,  you  have 
delineated  nature  with  a humor  and  naivete  that 
would  do  honor  to  Matthew  Prior;  but  when 
you  describe  the  infernal  orgies  of  the  witches’ 
sabbath,  and  the  hellish  scenery  in  which  they 
are  exhibited,  you  display  a power  of  imagina- 
tion that  Shakspeare  himself  could  not  have 
exceeded.  I know  not  that  I have  ever  met 
with  a picture  of  more  horrible  fancy  than  the 
following : 

“Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 

That  shaw’d  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses  ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight, 

Each  in  his  cauld  hand  held  a light.” 

But  when  I came  to  the  succeeding  lines,  my 
blood  ran  cold  within  me  : 

“A  knife,  a father’s  throat  had  mangled, 

Whom  his  ain  son  of  life  bereft; 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft." 

And  here,  after  the  two  following  lines,  “ Wi’ 
mair  o’  horrible  and  awfu’,”  &c.  the  descrip- 
tive part  might  perhaps  have  been  better  closed, 
than  the  four  lines  which  succeed,  which, 
though  good  in  themselves,  yet  as  they  derive 
all  their  merit  from  the  satire  they  contain,  are 
here  rather  misplaced  among  the  circumstances 
of  pure  horror.*  The  initiation  of  the  young 
witch,  is  most  happily  described — the  effect  of 
her  charms  exhibited  in  the  dance  on  Satan 
himself — the  apostrophe,  “Ah!  little  thought 
thy  reverend  graunie  !” — the  transport  of  Tam, 
who  lorgets  his  situation,  and  enters  completely 
into  the  spirit  of  the  scene,  are  all  features  of 
high  merit  in  this  excellent  composition.  The 
only  fault  that  it  possesses,  is,  that  the  winding 
up,  or  conclusion  of  the  story,  is  not  commen- 
surate to  the  interest  which  is  excited  by  the 
descriptive  and  characteristic  painting  of  the 
preceding  parts.  The  preparation  is  fine,  but 
the  result  is  not  adequate.  But  for  this,  per- 
haps, you  have  a good  apology — you  stick  to 
the  popular  tale. 

And  now  that  I have  got  out  my  mind,  and 
feel  a little  relieved  of  the  weight  of  that  debt 
I owed  you,  let  me  end  this  desultory  scroll,  by 
an  advice : you  have  proved  your  talent  for  a 
species  of  composition  in  which  but  a very  few 
of  our  own  poets  have  succeeded — Go  on — 
write  more  tales  in  the  same  style — you  will 
eclipse  Prior  and  La  Fontaine ; for  with  equal 
wit,  equal  power  of  numbers,  and  equal  naivete 
of  expression,  you  have  a bolder,  and  more  vig- 
orous imagination. 

I am,  dear  Sir,  with  much  esteem, 
Yours,  &c. 

* Our  Bard  profited  by  Mr.  Tytler's  criticisms,  and 
expunged  the  four  lines  accordingly. 


272 


LETTERS. 


No.  CVI. 

TO  A.  F.  TYTLER,  ESQ. 

Sir, — 

Nothing  less  than  the  unfortunate  accident  I 
have  met  with  could  have  prevented  my  grate- 
ful acknowledgments  for  your  letter.  His  own 
favorite  poem,  and  that  an  essay  in  a walk  of 
the  muses  entirely  new  to  him,  where  conse- 
quently his  hopes  and  fears  were  on  the  most 
anxious  alarm  for  his  success  in  the  attempt : 
to  have  that  poem  so  much  applauded  by  one 
of  the  first  judges,  was  the  most  delicious  vibra- 
tion that  ever  trilled  along  the  heart-strings  of 
a poor  poet.  However,  Providence,  to  keep  up 
the  proper  proportion  of  evil  with  the  good, 
which  it  seems  is  necessary  in  this  sublunary 
state,  thought  proper  to  check  my  exultation  by 
a very  serious  misfortune.  A day  or  two  after 
I received  your  letter,  my  horse  came  down 
with  me  and  broke  my  right  arm.  As  this  is 
the  first  service  my  arm  has  done  me  since  its 
disaster,  I find  myself  unable  to  do  more  than  just 
in  general  terms  to  thank  you  for  this  additional 
instance  of  your  patronage  and  friendship.  As 
to  the  faults  you  detected  in  the  piece,  they  are 
truly  there : one  of  them,  the  hit  at  the  lawyer 
and  priest,  I shall  cut  out : as  to  the  falling  off 
in  the  catastrophe,  for  the  reason  you  justly  ad- 
duce, it  cannot  easily  be  remedied.  Your  ap- 
probation, Sir,  has  given  me  such  additional 
spirits  to  persevere,  in  this  species  of  poetic 
composition,  that  I am  already  revolving  two 
or  three  stories  in  my  fancy.  If  I can  bring 
these  floating  ideas  to  bear  any  kind  of  embod- 
ied form,  it  will  give  me  an  additional  oppor- 
tunity of  assuring  you  how  much  I have  the 
honor  to  be,  &c. 


No.  CVII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP- 

Ellisland,  7 th  February,  1791. 

When  I tell  you,  Madam,  that  by  alallnot 
from  my  horse,  but  with  my  horse,  I have  been 
a cripple  some  time,  and  that  this  is  the  first 
day  my  arm  and  hand  have  been  able  to  serve 
me  in  writing,  you  will  allow  that  it  is  too  good 
an  apology  for  my  seemingly  ungrateful  silence. 
I am  now  getting  better,  and  am  able  to  rhyme 
a little,  which  implies  some  tolerable  ease  ; as 
I cannot  think  that  the  most  poetic  genius  is  able 
to  compose  on  the  rack. 

I do  not  remember  if  ever  I mentioned  to  you 
my  having  an  idea  of  composing  an  elegy  on  the 
late  Miss  Burnet  of  Monboddo.  I had  the  hon- 
or of  being  pretty  well  acquainted  with  her,  and 
have  seldom  felt  so  much  at  the  loss  of  an  ac- 
quaintance, as  when  I heard  that  so  amiable  and 
accomplished  a piece  of  God’s  works  was  no 
more.  I have  as  yet  gone  no  farther  than  the 
following  fragment,  of  which  please  let  me  have 
your  opinion.  You  know  that  elegy  is  a sub- 
ject so  much  exhausted,  that  any  new  idea  on 
the  business  is  not  to  be  expected  ; ’ tis  well  if 
we  can  place  an  old  idea  in  a new  light.  How 
far  I have  succeeded  as  to  this  last,  you  will 
judge  from  what  follows: — 


{Here  followed  the  Elegy,  as  given  in  the  Po- 
ems, p.62,  with  this  additional  verse): 

The  parent’s,  heart  that  nestled  fond  in  thee, 

That  heart  how  sunk,  a prey  to  grief  and  care  ; 

So  deck’d  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree, 

So  from  it  ravished,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bare. 

* # # * 

I have  proceeded  no  further. 

Your  kind  letter,  wiihyour  kind  remembrance 
of  your  godson  came  safe.  This  last,  Madam, 
is  scarcely  what  my  pride  can  bear.  As  to  the 
little  fellow,  he  is,  partiality  apart,  the  finest  boy 
I have  of  a long  time  seen.  He  is  now  seven- 
teen months  old,  has  the  small-pox  and  measles 
over,  has  cut  several  teeth,  and  yet  never  had  a 
grain  of  doctor’s  drugs  in  his  bowels. 

I am  truly  happy  to  hear  that  the  “ little  flow- 
eret” is  blooming  so  fresh  and  fair,  and  that  the 
‘‘  mother  plant”  is  rather  recovering  her  droop- 
ing head.  Soon  and  well  may  her  “ cruel 
wounds”  be  healed  ! I have  written  thus  far 
with  a good  deal  of  difficulty.  When  I get  a 
little  abler,  you  shall  hear  farther  from, 

Madam,  yours,  &c. 


No.  CVIII. 

TO  LADY  W.  M.  CONSTABLE, 

Acknowledging  a present  of  a valuable  Snuff- 
box, with  a fne  picture  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots,  on  the  Lid. 

My  Lady, — 

Nothing  less  than  the  unlucky  accident  of 
having  lately  broken  my  right  arm,  could  have 

Erevented  me,  the  moment  I received  your 
.adyship’s  elegant  present  by  Mrs.  Miller,  from 
returning  you  my  warmest  and  most  grateful 
acknowledgments.  I assure  your  Ladyship  I 
shall  set  it  apart ; the  symbols  of  religion  shall 
only  be  more  sacred.  In  the  moment  of  poetic 
composition,  the  box  shall  be  my  inspiring  ge- 
nius. When  I would  breathe  the  comprehensive 
wish  of  benevolence  for  the  happiness  of  others, 
I shall  recollect  your  Ladyship  : when  I would 
interest  my  fancy  in  the  distresses  incident  to 
humanity,  I shall  remember  the  unfortunate 
Mary. 


No.  CIX. 

TO  MRS.  GRAHAM, 

OF  FINTRY. 

Madam, — 

Whether  it  is  that  the  story  of  our  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,  has  a peculiar  effect  on  the 
feelings  of  a poet,  or  whether  I have  in  the  en- 
closed ballad  succeeded  beyond  my  usual  poetic 
success,  I know  not : but  it  has  pleased  me  be- 
yond any  effort  of  my  muse  for  a good  while 
past : on  that  account  I enclose  it  particularly  to 
you.  It  is  true,  the  purity  of  my  motives  may 
be  suspected.  I am  already  deeply  indebted  to 
Mr.  G ’s  goodness  ; and  what,  in  the  usual 


LETTERS. 


273 


ways  of  men,  is  of  infinitely  greater  importance, 
Mr.  G.  can  do  me  service  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance in  time  to  come.  I was  born  a poor  dog  ; 
and  however  I may  occasionally  pick  a better 
bone  than  I used  to  do.  1 know  I must  live  and 
die  poor  ; but  I will  indulge  the  flattering  faith 
that  my  poetry  will  considerably  outlive  my 
poverty  ; and,  without  any  fustian  affectation  of 
spirit,  I can  promise  and  affirm,  that  it  must  be 
no  ordinary  cravingofthe  latter  shall  ever  make 
me  do  any  thing  injurious  to  the  honest  fame  of 
the  former.  Whatever  may  be  my  failings,  for 
failings  are  a part  of  human  nature,  may  they 
ever  be  those  of  a generous  heart  and  an  in- 
dependent mind ! It  is  no  fault  of  mine  that  I 

was  born  to  dependence  ; nor  is  it  Mr.  G ’s 

chiefest  praise  that  he  can  command  influence  ; 
but  it  is  his  merit  to  bestow,  not  only  with  the 
kindness  of  a brother,  but  with  the  politeness 
of  a gentleman  ; and  I trust  it  shall  be  mine  to 
receive  with  thankfulness,  and  remember  with 
undiminished  gratitude. 


No.  CX. 


FROM  THE  REV.  G.  BAIRD. 

London,  8th  February,  1791. 

Sir,— 

I trouble  you  with  this  letter  to  inform  you 
that  I am  in  hopes  of  being  able  very  soon  to 
bring  to  the  press,  a new  edition  (long  since 
talked  of)  of  Michael  Bruce' s Poems.  The  pro- 
fits of  the  edition  are  to  go  to  his  mother — a wo- 
man of  eighty  years  of  age — poor  and  helpjess. 
The  poems  are  to  be  published  by  subscription; 
and  it  may  be  possible,  I think  to  make  out  a 
2s.  6d.  or  3s.  volume,  with  the  assistance  of  a 
few  hitherto  unpublished  verses,  which  I have 
got  from  the  mother  of  the  poet. 

But  the  design  I have  in  view  in  writing  to 
you,  is  not  merely  to  inform  you  of  these  facts, 
it  is  to  solicit  the  aid  of  your  name  and  pen,  in 
support  of  the  scheme.  The  reputation  of  Bruce 
is  already  high  with  every  reader  of  classical 
taste,  and  I shall  be  anxious  to  guard  against  tar- 
nishing his  character,  by  allowing  any  new  po- 
ems to  appear  that  may  lower  if.  For  this  pur- 
pose the  MSS.  I am  in  possession  of,  have  been 
submitted  to  the  revision  of  some  whose  critical 
talents  I can  trust  to,  and  I mean  still  to  sub- 
mit them  to  others. 

May  I beg  to  know,  therefore,  if  you  will  take 
the  trouble  of  perusing  the  MSS. — of  giving 
your  opinion,  and  suggesting  what  curtailments, 
alterations,  or  amendments,  occur  to  you  as 
advisable  ? And  will  you  allow  us  to  let  it  be 
known,  that  a few  lines  by  you  will  be  added  to 
the  volume? 

I know  the  extent  of  this  request.  It  is  bold 
to  make  it.  But  I have  this  consolation,  that 
though  you  see  it  proper  to  refuse  it,  you  will 
not  blame  me  for  having  made  it ; you  will  see 
my  apology  in  the  motive. 

May  I just  add,  that  Michael  Bruce  is  one  in 
whose  company,  from  his  past  appearance,  you 
would  not,  I am  convinced,  blush  to  be  found  ; 
and  as  I would  submit  every  line  of  his  that 
Bhould  now  be  published,  to  your  own  criticisms 
vou  would  be  assured  that  nothing  derogatory, 


1 either  to  him  or  you,  would  be  admitted  in  that 
appearance  he  may  make  in  future. 

You  have  already  paid  an  honorable  tribute 
to  kindred  genius,  in  Fergusson  ; I fondly  hope 
that  the  mother  of  Bruce  will  experience  your 
I patronage. 

I wish  to  have  the  subscription-papers  circu- 
lated by  the  14th  of  March,  Bruce’s  birthday, 
which  I understand  some  friends  in  Scotland 
talk  this  year  of  observing — at  that  time  it  will 
be  resolved,  I imagine,  to  place  a plain  humble 
stone  over  his  grave.  This  at  least  I trust  you 
will  agree  to  do — to  furnish,  in  a few  couplets, 
an  inscription  for  it.  , 

On  these  points  may  I solicit  an  answer  as 
early  as  possible  ? A short,  delay  might  disap- 
point us  in  procuring  that  relief  to  the  mother, 
which  is  the  object  of  the  whole. 

You  will  be  pleased  to  address  for  me  under 
cover  to  the  Duke  of  Athole,  London. 

P.  S.  Have  you  ever  seen  an  engraving  pub- 
lished here  some  time  ago,  from  one  of  your 
poems,  “ 0 thou  pale  Orb."  If  you  have  not, 
I shall  have  the  pleasure  of  sending  it  to  you. 


No.  CXI. 

TO  THE  REV.  G BAIRD. 

In  answer  to  the  foregoing. 

Why  did  you,  my  dear  Sir,  write  to  me  in 
such  a hesitating  style,  on  the  business  of  poor 
Bruce?  Don’t  1 know,  and  have  I not  felt  the 
many  ills,  the  peculiar  ills,  that  poetic  flesh  is 
heir  to  ? You  shall  have  your  choice  of  all  the 
unpublished  poems  I have  ; and  had  your  let- 
ter had  my  direction  so  as  to  have  reached  me 
sooner  (it  only  came  to  my  hand  this  moment)  I 
should  have  directly  put  you  out  of  suspense 
on  the  subject.  I only  ask  that  some  prefatory 
advertisement  in  the  book,  as  well  as  the  sub- 
scription-bills, may  bear  that  the  publication  is 
solely  for  the  benefit  of  Bruce’s  mother.  I would 
not  put  it  in  the  power  of  ignorance  to  surmise 
or  malice  to  insinuate,  that  I clubbed  a share  in 
the  work  for  mercenary  motives.  Nor  need 
you  give  me  credit  for  any  remarkable  generos- 
ity in  my  part  of  the  business.  I have  such  a 
host  of  peccadilloes,  failings,  follies,  and  back- 
slidings  (any  body  but  myself  might  perhaps 
give  some  of  them  a worse  appellation,)  that  by 
way  of  some  balance,  however  trifling,  in  the 
account,  I am  fain  to  do  any  good  that  occurs  in 
my  very  limited  power  to  a fellow-creature, 
just  for  the  selfish  purpose  of  clearing  a little 
the  vista  of  retrospection. 

* * * *- 


No.  CXII. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Ellisland,  28th  February,  1791. 

I do  not  know,  Sir,  whether  you  are  a subscri- 
ber to  Grose's  Antiquities  of  Scotland.  If  you 
are,  the  enclosed  poem  will  not  be  altogether  new 


274 


LETTERS. 


to  you.  Captain  Grose  did  me  the  favor  to  send 
me  a dozen  copies,  of  the  proof-sheet,  of  which 
this  is  one.  Should  you  have  read  the  piece  be- 
fore, still  this  will  answer  the  principal  end  l 
have  in  view  ! It  will  give  me  another  opportu- 
nity of  thanking  you  for  all  your  goodness  to  the 
rustic  bard ; and  also  of  showing  you,  that  the 
abilities  you  have  been  pleased  to  commend  and 
patronize,  are  still  employed  in  the  way  you 
wish. 

The  Elegy  on  Captain  Henderson  is  a tribute 
to  the  memory  of  a man  I loved  much.  Poets 
have  in  this  the  same  advantage  as  Roman  Cath- 
olics ; they  can  be  of  service  to  their  friends  af- 
ter they  have  past  that  bourne  where  all  other 
kindness  ceases  to  be  of  any  avail.  Whether, 
after  all,  either  the  one  or  the  other  be  of  any 
real  service  to  the  dead,  is  I fear,  very  problem- 
atical : but  I am  sure  they  are  highly  gratifying 
to  the  living ; and,  as  a very  orthodox  text,  I 
forget  where  in  Scripture,  says,  “ whatsoever 
is  not  of  faith  is  sin;”  so  say  I,  whatsoever  is 
not  detrimental  to  society,  and  is  of  positive  en- 
joyment is  of  God,  the  giver  of  all  good  things, 
and  ought  to  be  received  and  enjoyed  by  his 
creatures  with  thankful  delight.  As  almost  all 
my  religious  tenets  originate  from  my  heart,  I 
am  wonderfully  pleased  with  the  idea,  that  I 
can  still  keep  up  a tender  intercourse  with  the 
dearly  beloved  friend,  or  still  more  dearly  be- 
loved mistress,  who  is  gone  to  the  world  of 
spirits. 

The  ballad  on  Queen  Mary  was  begun  while 
I was  busy  with  Percy's  Reliques  of  English 
Poetry.  By  the  way,  how  much  is  every  hon- 
est heart,  which  has  a tincture  of  Caledonian 
prejudice,  obliged  to  you  for  your  glorious  story 
of  Buchanan  and  Targe  i ’Twas  an  unequivocal 
proof  of  your  loyal  gallantry  of  soul,  giving 
Targe  the  victory.  I should  have  been  morti- 
fied to  the  ground  if  you  had  not. 

I have  just  read  over,  once  more  of  many 
times,  your  Zeluco.  I marked  with  my  pencil, 
as  I went  along,  every  passage  that  pleased  me 
particularly  above  the  rest ; and  one,  or  two  I 
think,  which  with  humble  deference,  I am  dis- 
osed  to  think  unequal  to  the  merits  of  the  book. 

have  sometimes  thought  to  transcribe  these 
marked  passages,  or  at  least  so  much  of  them 
as  to  point  where  they  are,  and  send  them  to 
you.  Original  strokes  that  strongly  depict  the 
human  heart,  is  your  and  Fielding’s  province, 
beyond  any  other  novelist  I have  ever  perused. 
Richardson  indeed  might  be  excepted  ; but  un- 
happily, his  dramatis  personae  are  beings  of 
some  other  world  : and  however  they  may  capti- 
vate the  inexperienced  romantic  fancy  of  a boy 
or  girl,  they  will  ever,  in  proportion  as  we  have 
made  human  nature  our  study,  dissatisfy  our  ri- 
per minds. 

As  to  my  private  concerns,  I am  going  on,  a 
mighty  tax-gatherer  before  the  Lord,  and  have 
lately  had  the  interest  to  get  myself  ranked  on 
the  list  of  Excise  as  a supervisor.  I am  not  yet 
employed  as  such,  but  in  a few  years  I shall  fall 
into  the  file  of  supervisorship  by  seniority,  I 
have  had  an  immense  loss  in  the  death  of  the  Earl 
of  Glencairn,  the  patron  from  whom  all  my 
fame  and  good  fortune  took  its  rise.  Independ- 


ent of  my  grateful  attachment  to  him,  which 
was  indeed  so  strong  that  it  pervaded  my  very 
soul,  and  was  entwined  with  the  thread  of  my 
existence  ; so  soon  as  the  prince’s  friends  had 
got  in,  (and  every  dog,  you  know,  has  his  day) 
my  getting  forward  in  the  Excise  would  have 
been  easier  business  than  otherwise  it  will  be. 
Though  this  was  a consummation  devoutly  to 
be  wished,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  I can  live  and 
rhyme  as  I am  ; as  to  my  boys,  poor  little  fel- 
lows ! if  I cannot  place  them  on  as  high  an  ele- 
vation in  life  as  I could  wish,  I shall,  if  I am 
favored  so  much  of  the  Disposer  of  events  as  to 
see  that  period,  fix  them  on  as  broad  and  inde- 
pendent a basis  as  possible.  Among  the  many 
wise  adages  which  have  been  treasured  up  by 
our  Scottish  ancestors,  this  is  one  of  the  best, 
Better  be  the  head  o'  the  commonalty  as  the  tail 
o'  the  gentry. 

But  I am  got  on  a subject,  which,  however 
interesting  to  me,  is  of  no  manner  of  conse- 
quence to  you  : so  I shall  give  you  a short  poem 
on  the  other  page,  and  close  this  with  assuring 
you  how  sincerely  I have  the  honor  to  be  yours, 
&c. 


Written  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a book  which  I 
presented  to  a very  young  lady  whom  I had  for- 
merly characterized  under  the  denomination  of 
The  Rosebud.  See  Poems,  p.  53. 


No.  CXIII. 

FROM  DR.  MOORE. 

London , 29 th  March,  1791. 

Dear  Sir, — 

Your  letter  of  the  28th  of  February  I receiv- 
ed only  two  days  ago,  and  this  day  I had  the 
pleasure  of  waiting  on  the  Rev.  Mr.  Baird,  at 
the  Duke  of  Athole’s,  who  had  been  so  obliging 
as  to  transmit  it  to  me,  with  the  printed  verses 
on  Alloa  Church,  the  Elegy  on  Captain  Hender- 
son, and  the  Epitaph.  There  are  many  poetical 
beauties  in  the  former  ; what  I particularly  ad- 
mire, are  the  three  striking  similes  from — 

“ Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river,” 
and  the  eight  lines  which  begin  with 

“ By  this  time  he  was  cros9  the  ford,” 

so  exquisitely  expressive  of  the  superstitious 
impressions  of  the  country.  And  the  twenty- 
two  lines  from 

“Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses,” 

which,  in  my  opinion,  are  equal  to  the  ingre- 
dients of  Shakspeare’s  cauldron  in  Macbeth. 

| As  for  the  Elegy,  the  chief  merit  of  it  consists 
I in  the  very  graphical  description  of  the  objects 
belonging  to  the  country  in  which  the  poet  writes, 
and  which  none  but  a Scottish  poet  could  have 
described,  and  none  but  a real  poet,  and  a close 
observer  of  Nature,  could  have  so  described. 

* * * * 

There  is  something  original,  and  to  me  won- 
derfully pleasing  in  the  Epitaph. 

I remember  you  once  hinted  before,  what  you 


LETTERS. 


repeat  in  your  last,  that  you  had  made  some  re- 
marks on  Zeluco  on  the  margin.  I should  be 
very  glad  to  see  them,  and  regret  you  did  not 
send  them  before  the  last  edition,  which  is  just 
published.  Pray  transcribe  them  for  me ; 1 
sincerely  value  your  opinion  very  highly,  and 
pray  do  not  suppress  one  of  those  in  which  you 
censure  the  sentiment  or  expression.  Trust  me 
it  will  break  no  squares  between  us — I am  not 
akin  to  the  bishop  of  Grenada. 

1 must  now  mention  what  has  been  on  my 
mind  for  some  time  : I cannot  help  thinkingyou 
imprudent,  in  scattering  abroad  so  many  copies 
of  your  verses.  It  is  most  natural  to  give  a few 
to  confidential  friends,  particularly  to  those  who 
are  connected  with  the  subject,  who  are  per- 
haps themselves  the  subject;  but  this  ought 
to  be  done  under  promise  not  to  give  other  cop- 
ies. Of  the  poem  you  sent  me  on  Queen  Mary, 
I refused  every  solicitation  for  copies,  but  I late- 
ly saw  it  in  a newspaper.  My  motive  for  cau- 
tioning you  on  this  subject,  is,  that  I wish  to 
engage  you  to  collect  all  your  fugitive  pieces, 
not  already  printed  ; and,  after  they  have  been 
re-considered,  and  polished  to  the  utmost  of 
your  power,  I would  have  you  publish  them  by 
another  subscription  : in  promoting  of  w'hich  I 
will  exert  myself  with  pleasure. 

In  your  future  compositions  I wish  you  would 
use  the  modern  English.  You  have  shown 
your  powers  in  Scottish  sufficiently.  Although 
in  certain  subjects  it  gives  additional  zest  to  tne 
humor,  yet  it  is  lost  to  the  Eng'.ish  : and  why 
should  you  write  only  for  a part  of  the  island, 
when  you  could  command  the  admiration  of  the 
whole ! 

If  you  chance  to  write  to  my  Iriend  Mrs.  Dun- 
lop of  Dunlop,  I beg  to  be  affectionately  remem- 
bered to  her.  She  must  not  judge  of  the  warmth 
of  my  sentiments  respecting  her  by  the  number 
of  my  letters  ; I hardly  ever  write  a line  but  on 
business  ; and  I do  not  know  that  I should  have 
scribbled  all  this  to  you,  but  for  the  business 
part,  that  is  to  instigate  you  to  a new  publica- 
tion ; and  to  tell  you  that  when  you  have  a 
sufficient  number  to  make  a volume,  you  should 
set  your  friends  on  getting  subscriptions.  I 
wish  I could  have  a few  hours  conversation  with 
you — I have  many  things  to  say  which  I cannot 
write.  If  ever  I go  to  Scotland,  I will  let  you 
know,  that  you  may  meet  me  at  your  Own 
house,  or  my  friend  Mrs.  Hamilton,  or  both. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir,  &c. 


No.  CXIV. 

TO  THE  REV.  ARCH.  ALISON. 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  14 th  Feb.  1791. 
Sir, — 

You  must,  by  this  time,  have  set  me  down 
as  one  of  the  most  ungrateful  of  men.  You  did 
me  the  honor  to  present  me  with  a book  which 
does  honor  to  science  and  the  intellectual  pow- 
ers of  man,  and  I have  not  even  so  much  as 
acknowledged  the  receipt  of  it.  The  fact  is, 
you  yourself  are  to  blame  for  it.  Flattered  as  I 
was  by  your  telling  me  that  you  wished  to  have 
my  opinion  of  the  work,  the  old  spiritual  enemy 
of  mankind,  who  knows  well  that  vanity  is  one 


275 

of  the  sins  that  most  easily  beset  me,  put  it  in- 
to my  head  to  ponder  over  the  performance  with 
the  look-out  of  a critic,  and  to  draw  up,  forsooth, 
a deep-learned  digest  of  strictures,  on  a compo- 
sition, of  which,  in  fact,  until  I read  the  book, 
I did  not  even  know  the  first  principles.  I own 
Sir,  that,  at  first  glance,  several  of  your  proposi- 
tions startled  me  as  paradoxical.  That  the  martial 
clangor  of  a trumpet  had  something  in  it  vastly 
more  grand,  heroic,  and  sublime,  than  the  twin- 
gle-twangle of  a Jew’s-harp;  that  the  delicate 
flexure  of  a rose  twig,  when  the  half-blown  flow- 
er is  heavy  with  the  tears  of  the  dawn,  was  in- 
finitely more  beautiful  and  elegant  than  the  up- 
right stub  of  a burdock  ; and  that  from  some- 
thing innate  and  independent  of  all  association 
of  ideas ; — these  I had  set  down  as  irrefragable 
orthodox  truths,  until  perusing  jmur  book  shook 
my  faith.  In  short,  Sir,  except  Euclid's  Ele- 
ments of  Geometry,  which  1 made  a shift  to  un- 
ravel by  my  father’s  fire-side,  in  the  winter 
evenings  of  the  first  season  I held  the  plough,  I 
never  read  a book  which  gave  me  such  a quan- 
tum of  information,  and  added  so  much  to  my 
stock  of  ideas,  as  your  “ Essays  on  the  Princi- 
ples of  Taste."  One  thing,  Sir,  you  must  for- 
give my  mentioning  as  an  uncommon  merit  in 
the  work,  I mean  the  language.  To  clothe  ab- 
stract philosophy  in  elegance  of  style,  sounds 
something  like  a contradiction  in  terms  ; but 
you  have  convinced  me  that  they  are  quite  com- 
patible. 

I enclose  you  some  poetic  bagatelles  of  my 
late  composition.  The  one  in  print  is  my  first 
essay  in  the  way  of  telling  a tale. 

I am,  Sir,  &c. 


No.  CXV. 

Extract  of  a Letter 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

12 th  March,  1791. 

If  the  foregoing  piece  be  worth  your  strictures, 
let  me  have  them.  For  my  own  part,  a thing 
that  I have  just  composed  always  appears  through 
a double  portion  of  that  partial  medium  in  which 
an  author  will  ever  view  his  own  works.  I believe 
in  general,  novelty  has  something  in  it  that  in- 
ebriates the  fancy,  and  not  unfrequently  dissi- 
pates and  fumes  away  like  other  intoxication, 
and  leaves  the  poor  patient,  as  usual,  with  an 
aching  heart.  A striking  instance  of  this  might 
be  adduced  in  the  revolution  of  many  a hyme- 
neal honey-moon.  But  lest  I sink  into  stupid 
prose,  and  so  sacrilegiously  intrude  on  the  of- 
fice of  my  parish  priest,  I shall  fill  up  the  page 
in  my  own  way,  and  give  you  another  song  of 
my  late  composition,  which  will  appear,  per- 
haps, in  Johnson’s  works,  as  well  as  the  former. 

You  must  know  a beautiful  Jacobite  air 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  come  hame. 
When  political  combustion  ceases  to  be  the  ob- 
ject of  princes  and  patriots,  it  then,  you  know 
becomes  the  lawful  prey  of  historians  and  poets.* 

# # # # 

* Here  followed  a copy  of  the  Son?  printed  in  p.  62 
of  the  Poems.  “ By  yon  castle  wa’,”  &c. 


LETTERS. 


276 

If  you  like  the  air,  and  if  the  stanzas  hit  your 
fancy,  you  cannot  imagine,  my  dear  friend,  how 
much  you  would  oblige  me,  if,  by  the  charms 
of  your  delightful  voice,  you  would  give  my 
honest  effusion  to  “ the  memory  of  joys  that 
are  past !”  to  the  few  friends  whom  you  indulge 
in  that  pleasure.  But  I have  scribbled  on  ’till 
1 hear  the  clock  has  intimated  the  near  approach 
of 

“That  hour,  o’  night’s  black  arch  the  key-stane.” 

So,  good  night  to  you ! sound  be  your  sleep, 
and  deiectable  your  dreams  ! A-propos,  how  do 
you  like  this  thought  in  a ballad  I have  just  now 
on  the  tapis  ? 

I look  to  the  west  when  I gae  to  rest, 

That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers  may  be  ; 

For  far  in  the  west  is  he  I lo’e  best,  e 

The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me  ! 

Good  night,  once  more,  and  God  bless  you  ! 


No.  CXVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  11  th  April,  1791. 

I am  once  more  able,  my  honored  friend,  to 
return  you,  with  my  own  hand,  thanks  for  the 
many  instances  of  your  friendship,  and  particu- 
larly for  your  kind  anxiety  in  this  last  disaster 
that  my  evil  genius  had  in  store  for  me.  How- 
ever, life  is  chequered — joy  and  sorrow — for  on 
Saturday  morning  last,  Mrs.  Burns  made  me  a 
present  of  a fine  boy,  rather  stouter,  but  not  so 
handsome  as  your  godson  was  at  his  time  of  life. 
Indeed  I look  on  your  little  namesake  to  be  my 
chef  d' oeuvre  in  that  species  of  manufacture,  as  I 
look  on  Tamo'  Shanter  to  be  my  standard  per- 
formance in  the  poetical  line.  ’Tis  true  both 
the  one  and  the  other  discover  a spice  of  roguish 
waggery  that  might,  perhaps,  be  as  well  spared; 
but  then  they  also  show,  in  my  opinion,  a force 
of  genius,  and  a finishing  polish  that  I despair 
of  ever  excelling.  Mrs.  Burns  is  getting  stout 
again,  and  laid  as  lustily  about  her  to-day  at 
breakfast,  as  a reaper  from  the  corn  ridge.  That 
is  the  peculiar  privilege  and  blessing  of  our  hale 
and  sprightly  damsels,  that  are  bred  among  the 
hay  and  heather.  We  cannot  hope  for  that 
highly  polished  mind,  that  charming  delicacy 
of  soul,  which  is  found  among  the  female  world 
in  the  more  elevated  stations  of  life,  and  which 
is  certainly  by  far  the  most  bewitching  charm 
in  the  famous  cestus  of  Venus.  It  is,  indeed, 
such  an  inestimable  treasure,  that  where  it  can 
be  had  in  its  native  heavenly  purity,  unstained 
by  some  one  or  other  of  the  many  shades  of  af- 
fectation, and  unalloyed  by  some  one  or  other 
of  the  many  species  of  caprice,  I declare  to 
Heaven,  I should  think  it  cheaply  purchased  at 
the  expense  of  every  other  earthly  good!  But 
as  this  angelic  creature  is,  I am  afraid  extremely 
rare  in  any  station  and  rank  of  life,  and  totally 
denied  to  such  an  humble  one  as  mine ; we 
meaner  mortals  must  put  up  with  the  next  rank 
of  female  excellence — as  fine  a figure  and  face 
we  can  produce  as  any  rank  of  life  whatever ; 
rustic,  native  grace;  unaffected  modesty,  and 
unsullied  purity  ; nature’s  mother  wit,  and  the 
rudiments  of  taste ; a simplicity  of  soul  unsus- 
picious of,  because  unacquainted  with  the  crook- 


ed ways  of  a selfish,  interested,  disingenuous 
world  ; and  the  dearest  charm  of  all  the  rest,  a 
yielding  sweetness  of  disposition,  and  a gener- 
ous warmth  of  heart,  grateful  for  love  on  our 
part,  and  ardently  glowing  with  a more  than 
equal  return  ; these,  with  a healthy  frame,  a 
sound,  vigorous  constitution,  which  your  higher 
ranks  can  scarcely  ever  hope  to  enjoy,  are  the 
charms  of  lovely  woman  in  my  humble  walk  of 
life. 

This  is  the  greatest  effort  my  broken  arm  has 
yet  made.  Do  let  me  hear,  by  first  post,  how 
cher  petit  Monsieur  comes  on  with  his  small- 
pox. May  Almighty  goodness  preserve  and 
restore  him  ! 


No.  CXVII. 

TO 

Dear  Sib, — 

I am  exceedingly  to  blame  in  not  writing 
you  long  ago  ; but  the  truth  is,  that  I am  the 
most  indolent  of  all  human  beings  : and  when  I 
matriculate  in  the  herald’s  office.  I intend  that 
my  supporters  shall  be  two  sloths,  my  crest  a 
slow-worm,  and  the  motto,  “ Deil  tak  the  fore- 
most !”  So  much  by  the  way  of  apology  for  not 
thanking  you  sooner  for  your  kind  execution  of 
my  commission. 

I would  have  sent  you  the  poem  : but  some- 
how or  other  it  found  its  way  into  the  public  pa- 
pers, where  you  must  have  seen  it. 

* * * * 

I am  ever,  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 
ROBERT  BURNS. 


No.  CXVIII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNING-HAM. 

Uth  June , 1791. 

Let  me  interest  you,  my  dear  Cunningham, 
in  behalf  of  the  gentleman  who  waits  on  you 
with  this.  He  is  a Mr.  Clarke,  of  Moffat,  prin- 
cipal school-master  there,  and  is  at  present  suf- 
fering severely  under  the  ******  of  one  or 
two  powerful  individuals  of  his  employers.  He 
is  accused  of  harshness  to  * * * * that  were 
placed  under  his  care.  God  help  the  teacher, 
if  a man  of  sensibility  and  genius,  and  such  as 
my  friend  Clarke,  when  a booby  father  presents 
him  with  his  booby  son,  and  insists  on  light- 
ing up  the  rays  of  science  in  a fellow’s  head 
whose  skull  is  impervious  and  inaccessible  by 
any  other  way  than  a positive  fracture  with  a 
cudgel ; a fellow  whom,  in  fact,  it  savors  of  im- 
piety to  attempt  making  a scholar  of,  as  he  has 
been  marked  a blockhead  in  the  book  of  fate  at 
the  Almighty  fiat  of  his  Creator. 

The  patrons  of  Moffat  school  are  the  ministers, 
magistrates,  and  town-council  of  Edinburgh ; 
and  as  the  business  comes  now  before  them,  let 
me  beg  my  dearest  friend  to  do  every  thing  in 
his  power  to  serve  the  interest  of  a man  of  genius 
and  worth,  and  a man  whom  I particularly  re- 
spect and  esteem.  You  know  some  good  fel- 
lows among  the  magistracy  and  council,  * * 

* * * * but  particularly 


LETTERS. 


you  have  much  to  say  with  a reverend  gentle- 
man, to  whom  you  have  the  honor  of  being  very 
nearly  related,  and  whom  this  country  and  age 
have  had  the  honor  to  produce.  I need  not 
name  the  historian  of  Charles  V.*  I tell  him, 
through  the  medium  of  his  nephew’s  influence, 
that  Mr.  Clarke  is  a gentleman  who  will  not 
disgrace  even  his  patronage.  I know  the  mer- 
its of  the  cause  thoroughly,  and  say  it,  that  my 
friend  is  falling  a sacrifice  to  prejudiced  ignor- 
ance, and  ******'  GqcI  help  the  children  of  j 
dependence  ! Hated  and  persecuted  by  their  en-  j 
emies,  and  too  often,  alas!  almost  unexception-  | 
ably,  received  by  their  friends  with  disrespect 
and  reproach,  under  the  thin  disguise  of  cold 
civility  and  humiliating  advice.  O ! to  be  a 
sturdy  savage,  stalking  in  the  pride  of  his  inde- 
pendence. amid  the  solitary  wilds  of  his  deserts  ; 
rather  than  in  civilized  life  helplessly  to  tremble 
for  a subsistence  precarious  as  the  caprice  of  a 
fellow  creature  ! Every  man  has  his  virtues,  and 
no  man  is  without  his  failings  ; and  curse  on 
that  privileged  plain-dealing  of  friendship,  which 
in  the  hour  of  my  calamity  cannot  reach  forth 
the  helping  hand,  without  at  the  same  time 
pointing  out  those  failings,  and  apportioning 
them  their  share  in  procuring  my  present  dis- 
tress. My  friends,  for  such  the  world  calls  ye, 
and  such  ye  think  yourselves  to  be,  pass  by  my  I 
virtues,  if  you  please,  but  do,  also,  spare  my  fol-  j 
lies  : the  first  will  witness  in  my  breast  for  them- 
selves, and  the  last  will  give  pain  enough  to  the 
ingenuous  mind  without  you.  And  since  devi- 
ating more  or  less  from  the  paths  of  propriety 
and  rectitude  must  be  incident  to  human  nature, 
do  thou,  Fortune,  put  it  in  my  power,  always 
from  myself,  and  of  myself,  to  bear  the  conse- 
quences of  those  errors  ! I do  not  want  to  be 
independent  that  I may  sin,  but  I want  to  be  in- 
dependent in  my  sinning. 

To  return,  in  this  rambling  letter,  to  the  sub- 
ject I set  out  with,  let  me  recommend  my  friend 
Mr.  Clarke,  to  your  acquaintance  and  good  of- 
fices: his  worth  entitles  him  to  the  one,  and 
his  gratitude  will  merit  the  other.  I long  much 
to  hear  from  you — Adieu  ! 


No.  CXIX. 

FROM  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 

Dryburgh  Abbey , 11th  June , 1791. 

Lord  Buchan  has  the  pleasure  to  invite  Mr- 
Burns  to  make  one  at  the  coronation  of  the  bust 
of  Thomson,  on  Edman  Hill,  on  the  22 d of  Sep- 
tember ; for  which  day,  perhaps,  his  muse  may 
inspire  an  ode  suited  to  the  occasion.  Suppose 
Mr.  Burns  should,  leaving  the  Nith,  go  across 
the  country,  and  meet  the  Tweed  at  the  nearest 
point  from  his  farm — and,  wandering  along 
the  pastoral  banks  of  Thomson’s  pure  parent 
stream,  catch  inspiration  on  the  devious  walk, 
till  he  finds  Lord  Buchan  sitting  on  the  ruins  of 
Dryburgh.  There  the  commendator  will  give 
him  a hearty  welcome,  and  try  to  light  his  lamp 
at  the  pure  flame  of  native  genius  upon  the  altar 
of  Caledonian  virtue.  This  poetical  perambu- 
lation of  the  Tweed,  is  a thought  of  the  late 
Sir  Gilbert  Elliot’s  and  of  Lord  Minto’s,  follow- 

* Dr.  Robertson  was  uncle  to  Mr.  Cunningham.  E 


277 

ed  out  by  his  accomplished  grandson,  the  pres- 
ent Sir  Gilbert,  who  having  been  with  Lord 
Buchan  lately,  the  project  was  renewed,  and 
will,  they  hope,  be  executed  in  the  manner  pro- 
posed. 


No.  CXX. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  BUOHAN. 

My  Lord, — 

Language  sinks  under  the  ardor  of  my  feel- 
ings when  I would  thank  your  Lordship  for  the 
honor  you  have  done  me  in  inviting  me  to  make 
one  at  the  coronation  of  the  bust  of  Thomson. 
In  my  first  enthusiasm  in  reading  the  card  you 
did  me  the  honor  to  write  to  me,  I overlooked 
every  obstacle,  and  determined  to  go  ; but  I fear 
it  will  not  be  in  my  power.  A week  or  two’s 
absence,  in  the  very  middle  of  my  harvest,  is 
what  I much  doubt  1 dare  not  venture  on. 

Your  Lordship  hints  at  an  ode  for  the  occasion, 
but  who  could  write  after  Collins?  I read  over 
his  verses  to  the  memory  of  Thomson,  and  de- 
spaired.— I got  indeed,  to  the  length  of  three  or 
four  stanzas,  in  the  way  of  address  to  the  shade 
of  the  bard,  on  crowning  his  bust.  I shall 
trouble  your  Lordship  with  the  subjoined  copy 
of  them,  which  I am  afraid,  will  be  but  too  con- 
vincing a proof  how  unequal  lam  to  the  task. 
However,  it  affords  me  an  opportunity  of  ap- 
proaching your  Lordship,  and  declaring  how 
sincerely  and  gratefully  I have  the  honor  to  be, 
&c. 


No.  CXXI. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

Dryburgh  Abbey , 16th  September,  1791. 
Sir,— 

Your  address  to  the  shade  of  Thomson  has 
been  well  received  by  the  public ; and  though 
I should  disapprove  of  your  allowing  Pegasus  to 
ride  with  you  off  the  field  of  your  honorable  and 
useful  profession,  yet  I cannot  resist  an  impulse 
which  I feel  at  this  moment  to  suggest  to  your 
Muse,  Harvest  Home,  as  an  excellent  subject 
for  her  grateful  song,  in  which  the  peculiar  aspect 
and  manners  of  our  country  might  furnish  an 
excellent  portrait  and  landscape  of  Scotland,  for 
the  employment  of  happy  moments  of  leisure 
and  recess  from  your  more  important  occupa- 
tions. 

Your  Halloween , and  Saturday  Night  will  re- 
main to  distant  posterity  as  interesting  pictures 
of  rural  innocence  and  happiness  in  your  native 
country,  and  were  happily  written  in  the  dia- 
lect of  the  people  ; but  Harvest  Home,  being 
suited  to  descriptive  poetry,  except,  where  col- 
loquial, may  escape  the  disguise  of  a dialect 
which  admits  of  no  elegance  or  dignity  of  ex- 
pression. Without  the  assistance  of  any  god  or 
goddess,  and  without  the  invocation  of  any  for- 
eign Muse,  you  may  convey  in  epistolary  form 
the  description  of  a scene  so  gladdening  and 
picturesque,  with  all  the  concomitant  local  po- 
sition, landscape  and  costume  : contrasting  the 
| peace,  improvement,  and  happiness  of  the  borders 


278 


LETTERS. 


of  the  once  hostile  nations  of  Britain,  with  their 
former  oppression  and  misery  : and  showing  in 
lively  and  beautiful  colors,  the  beauties  and  joys 
of  a rural  life.  And  as  the  unvitiated  heart  is 
naturally  disposed  to  overflow  with  gratitude  in 
the  moment  of  prosperity,  such  a subject  would 
furnish  you  with  an  amiable  opportunity  of  per- 
petuating the  names  of  Glencairn,  Miller,  and 
your  other  eminent  benefactors;  which,  from 
what  I know  of  your  spirit,  and  have  seen  of 
your  poems  and  letters,  will  not  deviate  from 
the  chastity  of  praise  that  is  so  uniformly  united 
to  true  taste  and  genius, 

I am  Sir,  &c. 


No.  CXX1I. 

TO  LADY  E.  CUNNINGHAM. 

My  Lady, — 

I would  as  usual,  have  availed  myself  of  the 
privilege  your  goodness  has  allowed  me,  of 
sending  you  anything  I compose  in  my  poetical 
way  ; but  as  l had  resolved,  so  soon  as  the 
shock  of  my  irreparable  loss  would  allow  me, 
to  pay  a tribute  to  my  late  benefactor,  I deter- 
mined to  make  that  the  first  piece  1 should  do 
myself  the  honor  of  sending  you.  Had  the 
wing  of  my  fancy  been  equal  to  the  ardor  of  my 
heart,  the  enclosed  had  been  much  more  worthy 
your  perusal : as  it  is,  I beg  leave  to  lay  it  at 
your  Ladyship’s  feet.  As  all  the  world  knows 
my  obligations  to  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  I would 
wish  to  show  as  openly  that  my  heart  glows, 
and  shall  ever  glow  with  the  most  gratefulsense 
and  remembrance  of  his  Lordship’s  goodness. 
The  sables  I did  myself  the  honor  to  wear  to 
his  Lordship’s  memory,  were  not  the  “ mock- 
ery of  wo.”  Nor  shall  my  gratitude  perish  with 
me  ! — If,  among  my  children,  I shall  have  a son 
that  has  a heart,  he  shall  hand  it  down  to  his 
child  as  a family  honor,  and  a family  debt,  that 
my  dearest  existence  1 owe  to  the  noble  house 
of  Glencairn! 

I was  about  to  say,  my  Lady,  that  if  you 
think  the  poem  may  venture  to  see  the  light,  I 
would,  in  some  way  or  other,  give  it  to  the 
world.* 

* * * * 


No.  CXXIII. 

TO  MR.  AINSLIE. 

My  Dear  Ainslie, 

Can  you  minister  to  a mind  diseased  ? Can 
you  amid  the  horrors  of  penitence,  regret,  re- 
morse. headache,  nausea,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 

d d hounds  of  hell,  that  beset  a poor  wretch 

who  has  been  guilty  of  the  sin  of  drunkenness 
— can  you  speak  peace  to  a troubled  soul : 

Miserable  perdu  that  I am  ! I have  tried  ev- 
ery thing  that  used  to  amuse  me,  but  in  vain  ; 
here  must  I sit  a monument  of  the  vengeance 
laid  up  in  store  for  the  wicked,  slowly  counting 
every  check  of  the  clock  as  it  slowly  numbers 

over  these  lazy  scoundrels  of  hours,  who  d n 

them,  are  ranked  up  before  me,  every  one  at 

* The  poem  enclosed  is  published, — See  “ The  La- 
ment for  James  Earl  of  Glencairn.”  Poems,  p.49. 


his  neighbor’s  backside,  and  every  one  with  a 
burden  of  anguish  on  his  back,  to  pour  on  my 
devoted  head — and  there  is  none  to  pity  me. 
My  wife  scolds  me  ! my  business  torments  me, 
and  my  sins  come  staring  me  in  the  face,  every 
one  telling  a more  bitter  tale  than  his  fellow. — 
When  I tell  you  even  * * * has  lost  its  power 
to  please,  you  will  guess  something  of  my  hell 
within,  and  all  around  me. — I began  Elibanks 
and  Elibra.es ; but  the  stanzas  fell  unenjoyed  and 
unfinished  from  my  listless  tongue  ; at  last  I 
luckily  thought  of  reading  over  an  old  letter 
of  yours  that  lay  by  me  in  my  book-case,  and 
I felt  something,  for  the  first  time  I opened  my 
eyes  of  pleasurable  existence. — Well — I begin  to 
breathe  a little  since  I began  to  write  you.  How 
are  you  ? and  what  are  you  doing  ? How  goes 
Law  ? A propos,  for  connexion’s  sake,  do  not 
address  to  me  supervisor,  for  that  is  an  honor  I 
cannot  pretend  to — I am  on  the  list,  as  we  call 
it,  for  a supervisor,  and  will  be  called  out  by 
and  by  to  act  as  one : but  at  present  I am  a sim- 
ple gauger,  though  t’other’day  I got  an  appoint- 
ment to  an  excise  division  of  £25  per  ann.  bet- 
ter than  the  rest.  My  present  income,  down 
money,  is  £70  per  ann. 

# * * * 

I have  one  or  two  good  fellows  here  whom 
you  would  be  glad  to  know. 

* * * # 


No.  CXXIV. 

FROM  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD. 
Near  Maybole,  15 th  October,  1791. 

Sir,— 

Accept  of  my  thanks  for  your  favor,  with  the 
Lament  on  the  death  of  my  much  esteemed 
friend,  and  your  worthy  patron,  the  perusal  of 
which  pleased  and  affected  me  much.  The  lines 
addressed  to  me  are  very  flattering. 

I have  always  thought  it  most  natural  to  sup- 
pose {and  a strong  argument  in  favor  of  a future 
existence)  that  when  we  see  an  honorable  and 
virtuous  man  laboring  under  bodily  infirmities, 
and  oppressed  by  the  frowns  of  fortune  in  this 
world,  that  there  was  a happier  state  beyond  the 
grave,  where  that  worth  and  honor,  which  were 
neglected  here,  would  meet  their  just  reward  ; 
and  where  temporal  misfortunes  would  receive 
an  eternal  recompense.  Let  us  cherish  this  hope 
for  our  departed  friend,  and  moderate  our  grief 
for  that  loss  we  have  sustained,  knowing  that  he 
cannot  return  to  us,  but  we  may  go  to  him. 

Remember  me  to  your  wife  ; and  with  every 
good  wish  for  the  prosperity  of  you  and  your 
family,  believe  me  at  all  times, 

Your  most  sincere  friend, 

JOHN  WHITEFOORD. 


No.  CXXV. 

FROM  A.  F.  TYTLEE.  ESQ. 

Edinburgh,  27 th  November,  1791. 
Dear  Sir, — 

You  have  much  reason  to  blame  me  for  neg- 
lecting till  now  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  a 
most  agreeable  packet,  containing  The  Whistle , 


LETTERS. 


279 


a ballad  : and  The  Lament  ; which  reached  me 
about  six  weeks  ago  in  London,  from  whence 
I am  just  reiurned.  Your  letter  was  forwarded 
to  me  there  from  Edinburgh  where,  as  I observ- 
ed by  the  date,  it  had  lain  for  some  days.  This 
was  an  additional  reason  for  me  to  have  answer- 
ed it  immediately  on  receiving  it;  but  the  truth 
was.  the  bustle  of  business,  engagements,  and 
confusion  of  one  kind  or  another,  in  which  I 
found  myself  immersed  all  the  time  I was  in 
London,  absolutely  put  it  out  of  my  power.  But 
to  have  done  with  apologies,  let  me  now  en- 
deavor to  prove  myself  in  some  degree  deserv- 
ing of  the  very  flattering  compliment  you  pay 
me,  by  giving  you  at  least  a frank  and  candid, 
if  it  should  not  be  a judicious,  criticism  on  the 
poems  you  sent  me. 

The  ballad  of  The  Whistle  is,  in  my  opinion 
truly  excellent.  The  old  tradition  which  you 
have  taken  up  is  the  best  adapted  for  a Baccha- 
nalian composition  of  any  lever  met  with,  and 
you  have  done  it  full  justice.  In  the  first  place, 
the  strokes  of  wit  arise  naturally  from  the  sub- 
ject, and  are  uncommonly  happy.  For  example, 

“ The  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they  were 
wet, 

“ Cynthia  hinted  he’d  find  them  next  morn.” 

“ Tho’  Fate  said — a hero  should  perish  in  light ; 

So  uprose  bright  Phoebus, — and  down  fell  the  knight.” 

In  the  next  place,  you  are  singularly  happy  in 
the  discrimination  of  your  heroes,  and  in  giving 
each  the  sentiments  and  language  suitable  to  his 
character.  And  lastly  you  have  much  merit  in 
the  delicacy  of  the  panegyric  which  you  have 
contrived  to  throw  on  each  of  the  dramatis  per- 
sona. perfectly  appropriate  to  his  character.  The 
compliment  to  Sir  Robert,  the  blunt  soldier,  is 
peculiarly  fine.  In  short,  this  composition,  in 
my  opinion,  does  you  great  honor,  and  I see 
not  a line  or  w'ord  in  it  which  I could  wish  to  be 
altered. 

As  to  the  Lament,  I suspect  from  some  ex- 
pressions in  your  letter  to  me  that  you  are  more 
doubtful  with  respect  to  the  merits  of  this  piece 
than  of  the  other ; and  1 own  I think  you  have 
reason;  for  although  it  contains  some  beautiful 
stanzas,  as  the  first,  “ The  wind  blew  hollow, ’’ 
&c.  ; the  fifth.  “Ye  scatter’d  birds  the  thir- 
teenth, “ Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,”  &c.  ; yet 
it  appears  to  me  faulty  as  a whole,  and  inferior 
to  several  of  those  you  have  already  published 
in  the  same  strain.  My  principal  objection  lays 
against  the  plan  of  the  piece.  I think  it  was 
unnecessary  and  improper  to  put  the  lamentation 
in  the  mouth  of  a fictitious  character,  an  aged 
hard. — It  had  been  much  better  to  have  lament- 
ed your  patron  in  your  own  person,  to  have  ex- 
pressed your  genuine  feelings  for  the  loss,  and 
to  have  spoken  the  language  of  nature,  rather 
than  that  of  fiction,  on  the  subject.  Compare 
this  with  your  poem  of  the  same  title  in  your 
printed  volume,  which  begins,  0 thou  vale  Orb; 
and  observe  what  it  is  that  forms  tne  charm 
of  that  composition.  It  is  that  it  speaks  the  lan- 
guage of  truth,  and  of  nature.  The  change  is, 
in  my  opinion  injudicious  too  in  this  respect,  that 
an  aged  bard  has  much  less  need  of  a patron 
and  a protector  than  a young  one.  I have  thus 
given  you,  with  much  freedom,  my  opinion  of 
both  the  pieces.  I should  have  made  a very  ill  re- 
turn to  the  compliment  you  paid  me,  if  I had  giv- 
en you  any  other  than  my  genuine  sentiments. 


It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  from 
you  when  you  find  leisure  ; and  I beg  you  will 
believe  me  ever,  dear  Sir,  yours,  &c. 


No.  CXXVI. 

TO  MI  SS  DAVIES. 

It  is  impossible,  Madam,  that  the  generous 
warmth  and  angelic  purity  of  your  youthfnl 
mind  can  have  any  idea  of  that  moral  disease 
under  which  I unhappily  must  rank  as  the  chief 
of  sinners;  I mean  a turpitude  of  the  moral  powers 
that  may  be  called  a lethargy  of  conscience — In 
vain  Remorse  rears  her  horrent  crest,  and  rous- 
es all  her  snakes  ; beneath  the  deadly  fixed  eye 
and  leaden  hand  of  Indolence,  their  wildest  ire 
is  charmed  into  the  torpor  of  the  bat,  slumber- 
ing out  the  rigors  of  winter  in  the  chink  of  a 
ruined  wall.  Nothing  less,  Madam,  could  have 
made  me  so  long  neglect  your  obliging  com- 
mands. Indeed  I had  one  apology — the  baga- 
telle was  not  worth  presenting.  Besides,  so 

strongly  am  I interested  in  Miss  D ’s  fate 

and  welfare  in  the  serious  business  of  life,  amid 
its  chances  and  changes  ; that  to  make  her  the 
subject  of  a silly  ballad,  is  downright  mockery 
of  these  ardent  feelings;  ’tis  like  an  impertinent 
jest  to  a dying  friend. 

Gracious  Heaven!  why  this  disparity  be- 
tween our  wishes  and  our  powers  ? Why  is  the 
most  generous  wish  to  make  others  blessed, 
impotent  and  ineffectual — as  the  idle  breeze  that 
crosses  the  pathless  desert  ? In  my  walks  of  life 
I have  met  with  a few  people  to  whom  how 
gladly  would  I have  said — “Go,  be  happy?  I 
know  that  your  hearts  have  been  wounded  by 
the  scorn  of the  proud,  whom  accident  has  placed 
above  you — or  worse  still,  in  whose  hands  are, 
perhaps,  placed  many  of  the  comforts  of  your  life. 
But  there  ! ascend  that  rock,  Independence,  and 
look  justly  down  on  their  littleness  of  soul. 
Make  the  worthless  tremble  under  your  indig- 
nation, and  the  foolish  sink  before  your  con- 
tempt ; and  largely  impart  that  happiness  tooth- 
ers which  I am  certain,  will  give  yourselves  so 
much  pleasure  to  bestow. ’’ 

Why,  dear  Madam,  must  I wake  from  this 
delightful  reverie,  and  find  it  all  a dream  ? Why 
amid  my  generous  enthusiasm,  must  I find  my- 
self poor  and  powerless,  incapable  of  wiping  one 
tear  from  the  eye  of  pity,  or  of  adding  one  com- 
fort to  the  friend  I love  ! — Out  upon  the  world 
say  I,  that  its  affairs  are  administered  so  ill! 
They  talk  of  reform  ; good  Heaven,  what  a re- 
form would  I make  among  the  sons  and  even  (he 
daughters  of  men  ! — Down  immediately  should 
go  fools  from  their  high  places,  where  misbegot- 
ten chance  has  perked  them  up,  and  through  life 
should  they  skulk,  ever  haunted  by  their  native 
insignificance,  as  the  body  marches  accompan- 
ied by  its  shadow. — As  for  a much  more  formid- 
able class,  the  knaves,  I am  at  a loss  what  to  do 
with  them  ; — had  I a world  there  should  not  be 
a knave  in  it. 

* * * * 

But  the  hand  that  could  give,  I would  liberal- 
ly fill ; and  I would  pour  delight  on  the  heart 
that  could  kindly  forgive  and  generously  love. 


280 


LETTERS. 


Still  the  inequalities  of  life  are  among  men, 
comparatively  tolerable — but  there  is  a delicacy, 
a tenderness,  accompanying  every  view  in  which 
we  can  place  lovely  Woman,  that  are  grated  and 
shocked  at  the  rude,  capricious  distinctions  of 
fortune.  Woman  is  the  blood  royal  of  life  : let 
there  be  slight  degrees  of  precedency  among 
them — but  let  them  be  all  sacred.  Whether 
this  last  sentiment  be  right  or  wrong,  I am  not 
accountable;  it  is  an  original  component  feature 
of  my  mind. 


No.  CXXVII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  \lth  December,  1791. 

Many  thanks  to  you,  Madam,  for  your  good 
Dews  respecting  the  litde  floweret  and  the  moth- 
er-plant. I hope  my  poetic  prayers  have  been 
heard,  and  will  be  answered  up  to  the  warmest 
sincerity  of  their  fullest  extent  ! and  then  Mrs. 
Henri  will  find  her  little  darling  the  representa- 
tive of  his  late  parent  in  everything  but  his 
abridged  existence. 

J have  just  finished  the  following  song,  which 
to  a lady  the  descendant  of  Wallace,  and  many 
heroes  of  his  truly  illustrious  line,  and  herself 
the  mother  of  several  soldiers,  needs  neither 
preface  nor  apology. 


Scene — A Field  of  Battle — Time  of  the  Day 
Evening — the  wounded  and  dying  of  the  vic- 
torious Army  are  supposed  to  join  in  the  fol- 
lowing 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 

Farewell  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and  ye 
skies 

Now  gay  with  the  broad  setting  sun  ! 

Farewell  loves  and  friendships  ; ye  dear,  tender  ties, 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run  ! 

Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  thou  life’s  gloomy  foe, 

Go  frighten  the  coward  and  slave  ! 

Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant  ! but  know 
No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave  ! 

Thou  strik’st  the  poor  peasant— he  sinks  in  the  dark. 
Nor  saves  e’en  the  wreck  of  a name  ; 

Thou  strik’st  the  young  hero — a glorious  mark, 

He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame 

In  the  field  of  proud  honor— our  swords  in  our  hands 
Our  k ng  and  our  country  to  save — 

While  victory  shines  on  life’s  last  ebbing  sands — 

O,  who  would  not  die  with  the  brave  ?* 


mother  earth  all  night,  shall  have  shrunk  into  a 
modest  crescent,  just  peeping  forth  at  dewy 
dawn,  I shall  find  an  hour  to  transcribe  for  you. 
A Dieuje  vous  commende  ! 


No.  CXXVIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

5th  January,  1792. 

You  see  my  hurried  life,  Madam  ; I can  only 
command  starts  of  time:  however,  I am  glad 
of  one  thing  ; since  1 finished  the  other  sheet, 
the  political  blast  that  threatened  my  welfare  is 
overblown.  I have  corresponded  with  Com- 
missioner Graham,  for  the  Hoard  had  made  me 
the  subject  of  their  animadversions  ; and  now  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  informing  you,  that  all  is 
set  to  rights  in  that  quarter.  Now  as  to  these 

informers,  may  the  devil  be  let  loose  to  

but  hold  ! I was  praying  most  fervently  in  my 
last  sheet,  and  I must  not  so  soon  fall  a swear- 
ing in  this. 

Alas  ! how  little  do  the  wantonly  or  idly  offi- 
cious think  what  mischief  they  do  by  their  ma- 
licious insinuations,  indirect  impertinence,  or 
thoughtless  blabbings  ! What  a difference  there 
is  in  intrinsic  worth,  candor,  benevolence,  gen- 
erosity, kindness — in  all  the  charities  and  all 
the  virtues,  between  one  class  of  human  beings 
and  another  ! For  instance,  the  amiable  circle 
I so  lately  mixed  with  in  the  hospitable  hall  of 
D , their  generous  hearts — iheir  uncontami- 

nated, dignified  minds — their  informed  and  pol- 
ished understandings — what  a contrast,  when 
compared — if  such  comparing  were  not  down- 
right sacrilege — with  the  soul  of  the  miscreant 
who  can  deliberately  plot  the  destruction  of  an 
honest  man  that  never  offended  him,  and  with 
a grin  of  satisfaction  see  the  unfortunate  being, 
his  faithful  wife  and  prattling  innocents,  turned 
over  to  beggary  and  ruin  ! 

Your  cup,  my  dear  Madam,  arrived  safe.  I had 
two  worthy  fellows  dining  wi;h  me  the  other 
day,  when  I with  great  formality,  produced  my 
whigmeleerie  cup,  and  told  them  it  had  been  a 
family-piece  among  the  descendants  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam Wallace.  This  roused  such  an  enthusiasm 
that  they  insisted  on  bumpering  the  punch 
round  in  it ; and  by  and  by,  never  did  your 
great  ancestor  lay  a Southron  more  completely 
to  rest,  than  for  a time  did  your  cup  my  two 
friends.  A-propos  ! this  is  the  season  of  wish- 
ing. May  God  bless  you,  my  dear  friend  ! and 
bless  me,  the  humblest  and  sincerest  of  your 
friends,  by  granting  you  yet  many  returns  of 
the  season  ! May  all  good  things  attend  you 
and  yours  wherever  they  are  scattered  over  the 
earth ! 


The  circumstance  that  gave  rise  to  the  fore- 
going verses,  was  looking  over,  with  a musical 
friend,  M’Donald’s  collection  of  Scottish  airs,  I 
was  struck  with  one,  an  Isle  of  Syke  tune,  enti- 
tled Oran  an  Aoig,  or  The  Song  of  Death,  to 
the  measure  of  which  I have  adapted  my  stan- 
zas. I have  of  late  composed  two  or  three  oth- 
er little  pieces,  which  ere  yon  full-orbed  moon, 
whose  broad  impudent  face  now  stares  at  old 

* This  is  a little  altered  from  the  one  given  in  p.  62. 
of  the  poems. 


No.  CXXIX. 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  SMELLIE. 

PRINTER. 

Dumfries,  22 d January,  1792. 

T sit  down,  my  dear  Sir,  to  introduce  a young 
lady  to  you,  and  a lady  in  the  first  rank  of 
fashion,  too.  What  a task  ! to  you — who  care 
no  more  for  the  herd  of  animals  called  young 


LETT 

ladies,  than  you  do  for  the  herd  of  animals  call- 
ed young  gentlemen.  To  you — who  despise 
and  detest  the  groupings  and  combinations  of 
fashion,  as  an  idiot  painter  that  seems  industri- 
ous to  place  staring  fools,  and  unprincipled 
knaves  in  the  foreground  of  his  picture,  while 
men  of  sense  and  honesty  are  too  often  thrown 
into  the  dimmest  shades.  Mrs.  Riddle,  who 
will  take  this  letter  to  town  with  her,  and  send 
it  to  you,  is  a character  that,  even  in  your  own 
way  as  a naturalist  and  a philosopher,  would  be 
an  acquisition  to  your  acquaintance.  The  lady 
too  is  a votary  of  the  muses  ; and  as  I think  my- 
self somewhat  of  a judge  in  my  own  trade,  I as- 
sure you  that  her  verses,  always  correct,  and  of- 
ten elegant,  are  much  beyond  the  common  run 
of  the  lady  poetesses  of  the  day.  She  is  a great 
admirer  of  your  book  ; and  hearing  me  say  that 
I was  acquainted  with  you,  she  begged  to  be 
known  to  you,  as  she  is  just  going  to  pay  her 
first  visit  to  our  Caledonian  capital.  I told  her 
that  her  best  way  was,  to  desire  her  near  rela- 
tion, and  your  intimate  friend  Craigdarroch,  to 
have  you  at  his  house  while  she  was  there  ; and 
lest  you  might  think  of  a lively  West  Indian  girl 
of  eighteen,  as  girls  of  eighteen  too  often  deserve 
to  be  thought  of,  I should  take  care  to  remove 
that  prejudice.  To  be  impartial,  however,  in 
appreciating  the  lady’s  merits,  she  has  one  un- 
lucky failing ; a failing  which  you  will  easily 
discover,  as  she  seems  rather  pleased  with  in- 
dulging in  it ; and  a failing  that  you  will  as  eas- 
ily pardon,  as  it  is  a sin  which  very  much  besets 
yourself : — where  she  dislikes  or  despises,  she 
is  apt  to  make  no  more  a secret  of  it,  than  where 
she  esteems  and  respects. 

I will  not  present  you  with  the  unmeaning 
compliments  of  the  season,  but  I will  send  you 
my  warmest  wishes  and  most  ardent  prayers, 
that  Fortune  may  never  throw  your  subsist- 
ence to  the  mercy  of  a knave,  or  set  your 
character  on  the  judgment  of  a fool ; but  that, 
upright  and  erect,  you  may  walk  to  an  honest 
grave,  where  men  of  letters  shall  say,  Here  lies 
a man  who  did  honor  to  science!  and  men  of 
worth  shall  say,  Here  lies  a man  who  did  honor 
to  human  nature  ! 


No.  CXXX. 

TO  MR.  W.  NICOL. 

20 Ih  February,  1792. 

O thou,  wisest  among  the  wise,  meridian 
blaze  of  prudence,  full  moon  of  discretion,  and 
chief  of  many  counsellors  ! How  infinitely  is 
thy  puddled-headed.  rattle-headed,  wrong-head- 
ed, round-headed,  slave,  indebted  to  thy  super- 
eminent  goodness,  that  from  the  luminous  path 
of  thy  own  right-lined  rectitude,  thou  Iookest 
benignly  down  on  an  erring  wretch,  of  whom 
the  zig-zag  wanderings  defy  all  the  powers  of 
calculation,  from  the  simple  copulation  of  units 
up  to  the  hidden  mysteries  of  fluxions;  May 
one  feeble  ray  of  that  light  of  wisdom  which 
darts  from  thy  sensorium,  straight  as  an  arrow 
of  heaven,  and  bright  as  the  meteor  of  inspira- 
tion. may  it  be  my  portion,  so  that  I may  be 
less  unworthy  of  the  face  and  favor  of  that  father 
of  proverbs  and  master  of  maxims,  that  antipode 
of  folly,  and  magnet  among  sages,  the  wise  and 


1 E R S . 281 

the  witty  Willie  Nicol ! Amen  ! Amen  ! Yea, 
so  be  it ! 

For  me  ! I am  a beast,  a reptile.,  and  know 
nothing  ! From  the  cave  of  my  ignorance,  amid 
the  fogs  of  my  dulness,  and  pestilential  fumes 
of  my  political  heresies,  T look  up  to  thee,  as 
doth  a toad  through  the  iron-barred  lucerne  of  a 
pestiferous  dungeon,  to  the  cloudless  glory  of  a 
summer  sun  ! Sorely  sighing  in  the  bitterness 
of  soul,  I say,  when  shall  my  name  be  the  quo- 
tation of  the  wise,  and  my  countenance  be  the 
delight  of  the  godly,  like  the  illustrious  lord  of 
Laggan’s  many  hills  ?*  As  for  him,  his  works 
are  perfect ; never  did  the  pen  of  calumny  blur 
the  fair  page  of  his  reputation,  nor  the  bolt  of 
hatred  fly  at  his  dwelling. 

* * * * 

Thou  mirror  of  purity,  when  shall  the  elfine 
lamp  of  my  glimerous  understanding,  purged 
from  sensual  appetites  and  gross  desires,  shine 
like  the  constellation  of  thy  intellectual  powers! 
As  for  thee,  thy  thoughts  are  pure,  and  thy  lips 
are  holy.  Never  did  the  unhallowed  breath  of 
the  powers  of  darkness,  and  the  pleasures  of 
darkness,  pollute  the  sacred  flame  of  thy  sky- 
descended  and  heaven-bound  desires  : never  did 
the  vapors  of  impurity  stain  the  unclouded  se- 
rene of  thy  cerulean  imagination.  O that  like 
thine  were  the  tenor  of  my  life  ! like  thine  the 
tenor  of  my  conversation  ! then  should  no  friend 
fear  for  my  strength,  no  enemy  rejoice  in  my 
weakness  ! then  should  I lie  down  and  rise  up, 
and  none  to  make  me  afraid. — May  thy  pity  and 
thy  prayer  be  exercised,  for,  O thou  lamp  of 
wisdom  and  mirror  of  morality ! thy  devoted 
slave. t 


No.  CXXXI. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

3 d March,  1792., 

Since  I wrote  you  the  last  lugubrious  sheet, 
I have  not  had  time  to  write  you  farther. 
When  I say  that  I had  not  time,  that,  as  usual, 
means,  that  the  three  demons,  indolence,  busi- 
ness, and  ennui,  have  so  completely  shared  my 
hours  among  them,  as  not  to  leave  me  a five- 
minutes’  fragment  to  take  up  a fieri  in. 

Thank  heaven,  I feel  my  spirits  buoyed  up- 
wards with  the  renovating  year.  Now  J shall  in 
good  earnest  take  up  Thomson’s  songs,  I dare 
say  he  thinks  I have  used  him  unkindly,  and  I 
must  own  with  too  much  appearance  of  truth. 
A-prbpos  ' Do  you  know  the  much  admired  old 
Highland  air,  called  The  Sutor's  Dochter?  It 
is  a first-rate  favorite  of  mine,  and  I have  writ- 
ten what  I reckon  one  of  my  best  songs  to  it.  I 
will  send  it  to  you  as  it  was  sung  with  great  ap- 
plause in  some  fashionable  circles  by  Major 
Robertson  of  Lude,  who  was  here  with  his 
corps. 

# # * # 

There  is  one  commission  that  T must  trouble 
you  with.  I lately  lost  a valuable  seal,  a pres- 
ent from  a departed  friend,  which  vexes  me 
much.  I have  gotten  one  of  your  Highland 

* Mr.  Nicol. 

j This  strain  of  irony  was  excited  by  a letter  of 
Mr.  Nicol  containing  good  adv.ce. 


282 


LETTERS. 


pebbles,  which  I fancy  would  make  a very  de- 
cent one  ; and  I want  to  cut  my  armorial  bear- 
ing on  it  : will  you  be  so  obliging  as  to  inquire 
what  will  be  the  expense  of  such  a busi- 
ness ? I do  know  that  my  name  is  matriculated, 
as  the  heralds  call  it,  at  all  ; but  I have  invent- 
ed arms  for  myself,  so  you  know  I shall  be  chief 
of  the  name  ; and,  by  courtesy  of  Scotland,  will 
likewise  be  entitled  to  supporters.  These, 
however,  1 do  not  intend  having  on  my  seal.  I 
am  a bit  of  a herald,  and  shall  give  you,  secun- 
dum arlem,  my  arms.  On  a field,  azure,  a holly 
bush,  seeded,  proper,  in  base  ; a shepherd’s  pipe 
and  crook,  saltier- wise,  also  proper  in  chief.  On 
a wreath  of  the  colors,  a wood-lark  perching  on 
a sprig  of  bay-tree,  proper,  for  crest.  T wo  mot- 
toes : round  the  top  of  the  crest,  Wood  notes 
wild  ; at  the  bottom  of  the  shield,  in  the  usual 
place,  Better  a wee  bush  than  nae  bield.  By  the 
shepherd’s  pipe  and  crook  I do  not  mean  the 
nonsense  of  painters  of  Arcadia,  but  a Stock  and 
Horn , and  a Club,  such  as  you  see  at  the  head 
of  Allan  Ramsay,  in  Allan’s  quarto  edition  of 
the  Gentle  Shepherd.  By  the  by,  do  you  know 
Allan  ? He  must  be  a man  of  very  great  gen- 
ius— Why  is  he  not  more  known  ? — Has  he  no 
patrons  ? or  do  “ Poverty’s  cold  wind  and  crush- 
ing rain  beat  keen  and  heavy’’  on  him  ? I once, 
and  but  once,  got  a glance  of  that  noble  edition 
of  that  noblest  pastoral  in  the  world  ; and  dear 
as  it  was,  I mean,  dear  as  to  my  pocket,  I would 
have  bought  it : but  I was  told  that,  it  was  print- 
ed and  engraved  for  subscribers  only.  He  is 
the  only  artist  who  has  hit  genuine  pastoral  cos- 
tume. What,  my  dear  Cunningham,  is  there  in 
riches,  that  they  narrow  and  harden  the  heart 
so  ? I think,  that  were  I as  rich  as  the  sun,  I 
should  be  as  generous  as  the  day  ; but  as  I have 
no  reason  to  imagine  my  soul  a nobler  one 
than  any  other  man’s,  I must  conclude  that 
wealth  imparts  a bird-lime  quality  to  the  pos- 
sessor, at  which  the  man,  in  his  native  poverty 
would  have  revolted.  What  has  led  me  to  this 
is  the  idea  of  such  merit  as  Mr.  Allan  possesses, 
and  such  riches  as  a nabob  or  government  con- 
tractor possesses,  and  why  they  do  not  form  a 
mutual  league.  Let  wealth  shelter  and  cherish 
unprotecfed  merit,  and  the  gratitude  and  celeb- 
rity of  that  merit  will  richly  repay  it. 

* * * * 


No.  CXXXTI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Annan  Water  Foot,  22 d Aug.  1792. 

Do  not  blame  me  for  it,  Madam — my  own 
conscience,  hackneyed  and  weatherbeaten  as  it 
is,  in  watching  and  reproving  my  vagaries,  fol- 
lies, indolence.  &c.  has  continued  to  blame  and 
punish  me  sufficiently. 

* * * * 

Do  you  think  it  possible,  my  dear  and  honor- 
ed friend,  that  I could  be  so  lost  to  gratitude  for 
many  favors  ; to  esteem  for  much  worth,  and  to 
the  honest,  kind,  pleasurable  tie  of,  now  old  ac- 
quaintance, and  f hope  and  am  sure  of  progres- 
sive, increasing  friendship — as,  for  a single  day, 
not  to  think  of  you — to  ask  the  Fates  what  they 


are  doing  and  about  to  do  with  my  much-loved 
friend  and  her  wide-scattered  connexions,  and  to 
beg  of  them  to  be  as  kind  to  you  and  yours  as 
they  possibly  can  ? 

A -propos  ! (though  how  it  is  a-propos,  I have 
not  leisure  to  explain.)  Do  you  know  that  I am 
almost  in  love  with  an  acquaintance  of  yours? — 
Almost ! said  I — I am  in  love,  souse  ! over  head 
and  ears,  deep  as  the  most  unfathomable  abyss 
of  the  boundless  ocean  ; but  the  word  Love, 
owing  to  the  intermingledoms  of  the  good  and 
the  bad,  the  pure  and  the  impure,  in  this  world, 
being  rather  an  equivocal  term  for  expressing 
one’s  sentiments  and  sensations,  I must  do  jus- 
tice to  the  sacred  purity  ol  my  attachment. 
Know,  then,  that  the  heart-struck  awe,  the  dis- 
tant humble  approach,  the  delight  we  should 
have  in  gazing  upon  and  listening  to  a Messen- 
ger of  heaven,  appearing  in  all  the  unspotted 
purity  of  his  celestial  home  among  the  coarse, 
polluted,  far  inferior  sons  of  men,  to  deliver  to 
them  tidings  that  make  their  hearts  swim  in 
joy,  and  their  imaginations  soar  in  transport — 
such,  so  delighting  and  so  pure,  were  the  emo- 
tions of  my  soul  on  meeting  the  other  day  with 

Miss  L — B — , your  neighbor  at  M , Mr.  B. 

with  his  two  daughters,  accompanied  by  Mr.  H. 
of  G.,  passing  through  Dumfries  a few  days  ago 
on  their  way  to  England,  did  me  the  honor  of 
calling  on  me  ; on  which  I took  my  horse, 
(though  God  knows  I could  ill  spare  the  time,) 
and  accompanied  them  fourteen  or  fifteen  miles, 
and  dined  and  spent  the  day  with  them.  ’Twas 
about  nine,  1 think,  when  I left  them  ; and  ri- 
ding home,  I composed  the  following  ballad, 
of  which  you  will  probably  think  you  have  a 
dear  bargain,  as  it  will  cost  you  another  groat 
of  postage.  You  must  know  that  there  is  an 
old  ballad  beginning  with — 

“My  bonnie  Lizie  Bailie, 

I’ll  rowe  thee  in  my  plaidie.” 

So  T parodied  it  as  follows,  which  is  literally 
the  first  copy,  “ unanointed,  unanneal’d  as 
Hamlet  says. — 

“ O saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley  &c.” 

So  much  for  ballads.  I regret  that  you  are 
gone  to  the  east  country,  as  1 am  to  be  in  Ayr- 
shire in  about  a fortnight.  This  world  of  ours, 
notwithstanding  it  has  many  good  things  in  it, 
yet  it  has  ever  had  this  curse,  that  two  or  three 
people,  who  would  be  the  happier  the  oftener 
they  met  together,  are  almost  without  exception 
always  so  placed  as  never  to  meet  but  once  or 
twice  a-year,  which,  considering  the  few  years 
of  a man’s  life,  is  a very  great  “ evil  under  the 
sun,”  which  I do  not  recollect  that  Solomon 
has  mentioned  in  his  catalogue  of  the  miseries 
of  man.  I hope  and  believe  that  there  is  a state 
of  existence  beyond  the  grave,  where  the  wor- 
thy of  this  life  will  renew  their  former  intimacies, 
with  this  endearing  addition,  that,  “ we  meet  to 
part  no  more  !” 

# # # # 

“ Tell  us  ye  dead, 

Will  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret 

What  ’tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be  V* 

A thousand  times  have  I made  this  apostrophe 
to  the  departed  sons  of  men,  but  not  one  of  them 
has  ever  thought  fit  to  answer  the  question.  “O 
that  some  courteous  ghost  would  blab  it  out  1” 


LETTERS. 


2S3 


but  it  cannot  be  ; you  and  I,  my  friend,  must 
make  the  experiment  by  ourselves,  and  for  our- 
selves. However,  I am  so  convinced  that  an 
unshaken  faith  in  the  doctrines  of  religion  is  not 
only  necessary,  by  making  us  better  men,  but 
also  by  making  us  happier  men,  that  I shall 
take  every  care  that  your  little  godson,  and  ev- 
ery little  creature  that  shall  call  me  father,  shall 
be  taught  them, 

So  ends  this  heterogeneous  letter,  written  at 
this  wild  place  of  the  world,  in  the  intervals  of 
my  labor  of  discharging  a vessel  of  rum  from 
Antigua. 

No.  CXXXIII. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries , 10 th  September,  1792. 

No!  I will  not  attempt  an  apology — Amid 
all  my  hurry  of  business,  grinding  the  faces  of 
the  publican  and  the  sinner  on  the  merciless 
wheels  of  the  Excise  ; making  ballads,  and  then 
drinking,  and  singing  them;  and,  over  and  above 
all,  the  correcting  the  press- work  of  two  differ- 
ent publications,  still,  still  I might  have  stolen 
five  minutes  to  dedicate  to  one  of  the  first  of  my 
friends  and  fellow-creatures.  I might  have 
done  as  I do  at  present,  snatched  an  hour  near 
“ witching  time  of  night,”  and  scrawled  a page 
or  two.  1 might  have  congratulated  my  friend 
on  his  marriage  or  I might  have  thanked  the 
Caledonian  archers  for  the  honor  they  have  done 
me  (though  to  do  myself  justice,  I intended  to 
have  done  both  in  rhyme,  else  I had  done  both 
long  ere  now.)  Well,  then,  here  is  to  your 
good  health ! for  you  must  know  I have  set  a 
nipperkin  of  toddy  by  me,  just  by  way  of  spell, 
to  keep  away  the  meikle  horned  Deil,  or  any  of 
his  subaltern  imps  who  may  be  on  their  nightly 
rounds. 

But  what  shall  I write  to  you  ? “ The  voice 

said,  Cry  ! and  I said,  What  shall  I cry?” — O 
thou  spirit  ! whatever  thou  art,  or  wherever  thou 
makest  thyself  visible  ! be  thou  a bogle  by  the 
eerie  side  of  an  auld  thorn,  in  the  dreary  glen 
through  which  the  herd  callan  maun  bicker  in 
his  gloamin  route  frae  the  fauide  ! Be  thou  a 
brownie  set,  at  dead  of  night,  to  thy  task  by 
the  blazing  ingle,  or  in  the  solitary  barn,  where 
the  repercussions  of  thy  iron  flail  half  affright  thy- 
self as  thou  performest  the  work  of  twenty  of 
the  sons  of  men,  ere  the  cock-crowing  summon 
thee  to  thy  ample  cog  of  substantial  brose.  Be 
thou  a kelpie,  haunting  the  ford  or  ferry,  in  the 
starless  night,  mixing  thy  laughing  yell  with  the 
howling  of  the  storm  and  the  roaring  of  the  flood 
as  thou  viewest  the  perils  and  miseries  of  man 
on  the  foundering  horse,  or  in  the  tumbling 
boat! — Or,  lastly,  be  thou  a ghost,  paying  thy 
nocturnal  visits  to  the  hoary  ruins  of  decayed 
grandeur  : or  performing  thy  mystic  rites  in  the 
shadow  of  the  time-worn  church,  while  the  moon 
looks,  without  a cloud,  on  the  silent  ghastly 
dwellings  of  the  dead  around  thee  : or  taking 
thy  stand  by  the  bedside  of  the  villain,  or  the 
murderer,  portraying  on  his  dreaming  fancy, 
pictures,  dreadful  as  the  horrors  of  unveiled  hell 
and  terrible  as  the  wrath  of  incensed  Deity  ! — 
Come,  thou  spirit ! but  not  in  these  horrid  forms: 
come  with  the  milder,  gentle,  easy  inspirations 


which  thou  breathest  round  the  wig  of  a prating 
advocate,  or  the  tete  of  a tea-sipping  gossip, 
while  their  tongues  run  at  the  liglu-horse  gallop 
of  clish-maclaver  forever  and  ever — come  and 
assist  a poor  devil  who  is  quite  jaded  in  the  at- 
tempt to  share  half  an  idea  among  half  a hun- 
dred words  ; to  fill  up  four  quarto  pages,  while 
he  has  not  got  one  single  sentence  of  recollec- 
tion, information,  or  remark,  worth  putting  pen 
to  paper  for. 

1 feel,  I feel  the  presence  of  supernatural  as- 
sistance ! circled  in  the  embrace  of  my  elbow- 
chair,  my  breast  labors  like  the  bloated  Sibyl 
on  her  three-footed  stool,  and  like  her  too,  la- 
bors with  Nonsense.  Nonsense,  auspicious 
name  ! Tutor,  friend,  and  finger-post  in  the 
mystic  mazes  of  law  ; the  cadaverous  paths  of 
physic ; and  particularly  in  the  sightless  soar- 
ings of  school  divinity,  who  leaving  Common 
Sense  confounded  at  his  strength  of  pinion, 
Reason  delirious  with  eyeing  his  giddy  flight ; 
and  Truth  creeping  back  into  the  bottom  of  her 
well,  cursing  the  hour  that  ever  she  offered  her 
scorned  alliance  to  the  wizard  power  of  Theo- 
logic  Vision — raves  abroad  on  all  the  winds. 
“ On  earth,  Discord  ! a gloomy  Heaven  above, 
opening  her  jealous  gates  to  the  nineteen  thou- 
sandth part  of  the  tithe  of  mankind  ! and  below 
an  inescapable  and  inexorable  Hell,  expanding 
its  leviathan  jaws  for  the  vast  residue  of  mor- 
tals ! ! !’’  O doctrine  ! comfortable  and  healing 
to  the  weary,  wounded  soul  of  man  ! Ye  sons 
and  daughters  of  affliction,  ye  pauvres  misera - 
bles,  to  whom  day  brings  no  pleasure,  and  the 
night  yields  no  rest,  be  comforted  ! “ ’Tisbut 

one  to  nineteen  hundred  thousand  that  your  sit- 
uation will  mend  in  this  world;”  so,  alas!  the 
experience  of  the  poor  and  the  needy  too  often  af- 
firms ; and,  ’tis  nineteen  hundred  thousand  to 
one,  by  the  dogmas  of  ********t  (hat  you  will 
be  damned  eternally  in  the  world  to  come  ! 

But  of  all  Nonsense,  Religious  Nonsense  is 
the  most  nonsensical ; so  enough,  and  more  than 
enough  of  it.  Only,  by  the  by,  will  you  or  can 
you  tell  me,  my  dear  Cunningham,  why  a sec- 
tarian turn  of  mind  has  always  a tendency  to 
narrow  and  iliiberalize  the  heart  ? They  are 
orderly  ; they  may  be  just ; nay,  I have  known 
them  merciful : but  still  your  children  of  sancti- 
ty move  among  their  fellow-creatures,  with  a 
nosril-snuffing  putrescence,  and  a foot-spurning 
filth;  in  short,  wiih  a conceited  dignity  that 
your  titled  * * * * or  any  other  of  your  Scot- 
tish lordlings  of  seven  centuries’  standing,  dis- 
play when  they  accidentally  mix  among  the 
many-aproned  sons  of  mechanical  life.  I re- 
member, in  my  plough-boy  days,  1 could  not 
conceive  it  possible  that  a noble  lord  could  be  a 
fool,  or  a godly  man  could  be  a knave — How 
ignorant  ate  plough-boys  ! — Nay,  1 have  since 
discovered  that  a godly  woman  may  be  a * * * 

* * ! — But  hold — Here’s  t’ye  again — this  rum 
is  generous  Antigua,  so  a very  unfit,  menstru- 
um for  scandal. 

A-propos  ; How  do  you  like,  I mean  really , 
like  the  married  life?  Ah  ! my  friend,  matri- 
mony is  quite  a different  thing  from  what  your 
love-sick  youths  and  sighing  girls  take  it  to  be. 
But  marriage,  we  are  told,  is  appointed  by  God, 
and  l shall  never  quarrel  with  any  of  his  institu- 
tions. I am  a husband  of  older  standing  than 
you,  and  shall  give  you  my  ideas  of  the  conju- 
gal state  ( en  passant,  you  know  I am  no  Latin- 


284 


LETTERS. 


ist ; is  not  conjugal  derived  from  jugum , a 
yoke  ?)  Well;  then  the  scale  of  good  wifeship  ! 
divide  into  ten  pai  ts  ; — Good-nature,  four  ; Good 
Sense,  two  ; Wit,  one  ; Personal  Charms,  viz. 
a sweet  face,  eloquent  eyes,  fine  limbs,  grace- 
ful carriage  (I  would  add  a fine  waist  too,  but 
that  is  soon  spoiled  you  know,)  all  these,  one  ; 
as  for  the  other  qualities  belonging  to,  or  attend- 
ing on  a wife,  such  as  Fortune,  Connexions, 
Education,  (I  mean  education  extraordinary,) 
Family  Blood,  &c.,  divide  the  two  remaining 
degrees  among  them  as  you  please  ; only  re- 
member that  all  these  minor  properties  must  be 
expressed  by  fractions,  for  there  is  not  any  one 
of  them  in  the  aforesaid  scale,  entitled  to  the  dig- 
nity of  an  integer. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  fancies  and  reveries — 

how  I lately  met  with  Miss  L B , the 

most  beautiful,  elegant  woman  in  the  world — 
how  I accompanied  her  and  her  father’s  family 
fifteen  miles  on  their  journey  out  of  pure  devo- 
tion, to  adtnire  the  loveliness  of  the  works  of 
God,  in  such  an  unequalled  display  of  them — 
how,  in  galloping  home  at  night,  I made  a ballad 
on  her,  of  which  these  two  stanzas  made  a part — 

Thou,  lionnie  L , art  a queen, 

Thy  subjects  we  before  thee  ; 

Thou,  bonnie  L , art  divine, 

The  hearts  o’  men  adore  thee. 

The  very  Deil  he  could  na  scathe 
Whatever  wad  belang  thee  ) 

He’d  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 

And  say,  “ 1 canna  wrang  thee  !” 

— Behold  all  these  things  are  written  in  the 
chronicles  of  my  imaginations,  and  shall  be  read 
by  thee,  my  dear  friend,  and  by  thy  beloved 
spouse,  my  other  dear  friend,  at  a more  con- 
venient season. 

Now,  to  thee,  and  to  thy  before  designated 
Sosom- com  pan  ion,  be  given  the  precious  things 
brought  forth  by  the  sun,  and  the  precious 
things  brought  forth  by  the  moon,  and  the  be- 
nignest  influences  of  the  stars,  and  the  living 
streams  which  flow  from  the  fountains  oi  life, 
and  by  the  tree  of  life,  forever  and  ever,  Amen  ! 


No.  CXXXIV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Dumfries , 24 1 h September,  1792. 

T have  this  moment,  my  dear  Madam,  yours 
of  the  twenty-third.  All  your  other  kind  re- 
proaches. your  news,  &c.  are  out  of  my  head 
when  f read  and  think  on  Mrs.  H— ’s  situa- 
tion. Good  God ! a heart-wounded,  helpless 
young  woman — in  a strange  foreign  land,  and 
that  land  convulsed  with  every  horror  that  can 
harrow  the  human  feelings — sick -looking,  long- 
ing for  a comforter,  but  finding  none — a moth- 
er’s feelings  too — but  it  is  too  much  ; He  who 
wounded  (He  only  can)  may  He  heal  !* 

I wish  the  farmer  great  joy  of  his  new  acqui- 
sition to  his  family,  * * * * I cannot  say 

that  I give  him  joy  of  his  life  as  a farmer.  ’Tis, 
as  a farmer  paying  a dear,  unconscionable  rent, 
a cursed  life  ! As  to  a laird  farming  his  own 
property  ; sowing  his  own  corn  in  hope  ; and 

* This  much  lamented  lady  was  gone  to  the  south 
of  France  with  her  infant  son,  where  she  died  soon 
after. 


reaping  it  in  spite  of  brittle  weather,  in  gladness, 
knowing  that  none  can  say  unto  him,  “ what 
dost  thou  1” — fattening  his  herds  : shearing  his 
flocks  ; rejoicing  at  Christmas  : and  begetting 
sons  and  daughters,  until  he  be  the  venerated, 
gray-haired  leader  of  a little  tribe — ’Tis  a heav- 
enly life  ! — But  devil  take  the  life  of  reaping  the 
fruits  that  another  must  eat ! 

Well,  your  kind  wishes  will  be  gratified,  as 
to  seeing  me,  when  1 make  my  Ayrshire  visit, 

I cannot  leave  Mrs.  B until  her  nine  months’ 

race  is  run,  which  may  perhaps  be  in  three  or 
four  weeks.  She,  too,  seems  determined  to 
make  me  the  patriarchal  leader  of  a band. 
However,  if  Heaven  will  be  so  obliging  as  to 
let  me  have  them  in  proportion  of  three  boys  to 
one  girl,  I shall  be  so  much  the  more  pleased.  I 
hope,  if  I am  spared  with  them,  to  sho  w a set  of 
boys  that  will  do  honor  to  my  cares  and  name  ; 
but  I am  not  equal  to  the  task  of  rearing  girls. 
Besides,  I am  too  poor : a girl  should  always 
have  a fortune  — A-propos  ; your  little  godson 
is  thriving  charmingly,  but  is  a very  devil.  He, 
though  two  years  younger,  hascompletely  mas- 
tered his  brother.  Robert  is  indeed  the  mildest, 
gentlest  creature  I ever  saw.  He  has  a most 
surprising  memory,  and  is  quite  the  pride  of  his 
schoolmaster. 

You  know  how  readily  we  get  into  prattle 
upon  a subject  dear  to  our  heart : You  can  ex- 
cuse it.  God  bless  you  and  yours ! 


No.  CXXXV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Supposed  to  have  been  written  on  the  Death  of 
Mrs.  H , her  daughter. 

I had  been  from  home,  and  did  not  receive 
your  letter  until  my  return  the  other  day.  What 
shall  I say  to  comfort  you,  my  much-valued, 
much  afflicted  friend  ! I can  but  grieve  with  you; 
consolation  I have  none  to  offer,  except  that 
which  religion  holds  out  to  the  children  of  afflic- 
tion— Children  of  Affliction  ! — how  just  the  ex- 
pression ! and  like  every  other  family,  they 
have  matters  among  them, which  they  hear,  see 
and  feel  in  a serious  all-important  manner,  of 
which  the  world  has  not,  nor  cares  to  have,  any 
idea.  The  world  looks  indifferently  on,  makes 
the  passing  remark,  and  proceeds  to  the  next 
novel  occurrence. 

Alas,  Madam  ! who  would  wish  for  many 
years  ? What  is  it  but  to  drag  existence  until 
our  joys  gradually  expire,  and  leave  us  in  a 
night  of  misery  ; like  the  gloom  which  blots 
out.  the  stars  one  by  one,  from  the  face  of  night, 
and  leaves  us  without  a ray  of  comfort  in  the 
howling  waste  ! 

I am  interrupted,  and  must  leave  off.  You 
shall  soon  hear  from  me  again. 


No.  CXXXVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Dumfries,  6th  December,  1792. 

I shall  be  in  Ayrshire,  I think  next  week ; 
and,  if  at  all  possible,  I shall  certainly,  my 
much-esteemed  friend,  have  the  pleasure  of  vis- 
iting at  Dunlop-House. 


LETTERS. 


285 


Alas,  Madam  ! how  seldom  do  we  meet  in 
this  world,  that  we  have  reason  to  congratulate 
ourselves  on  accessions  of  happiness  ! I have  not 
passed  half  the  ordinary  term  of  an  old  man’s 
life,  and  yet  I scarcely  look  over  the  obituary 
of  a newspaper,  that  1 do  not  see  some  names 
that  I have  known,  and  which  I and  other  ac- 
quaintances, little  thought  to  meet  with  there  so 
soon.  Every  other  instance  of  the  mortality  of 
our  kind  makes  us  cast  an  anxious  look  into 
the  dreadful  abyss  of  uncertainty,  and  shudder 
with  apprehension  for  our  own  fate.  But  of 
how  different  an  importance  are  the  lives  of  dif- 
ferent individuals?  Nay,  of  what  importance 
is  one  period  of  the  same  life  more  than  another. 
A few  years  ago  I could  have  lain  down  in  the 
dust,  “ careless  of  the  voice  of  the  morning:” 
and  now  not  a few,  and  these  most  helpless  in- 
dividuals, would,  on  losing  me  and  my  exer- 
tions, lose  both  their  “staff  and  shield.I 11  By 
the  way,  these  helpless  ones  have  lately  got  an 

addition,  Mrs.  B having  given  me  a fine 

girl  since  I wrote  you.  There  is  a charming 
passage  in  Thomson’s  Edward  and  Eleanora, — 

“ The  valiant  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer  ? 

Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes  ?”  &c. 

As  I am  got  in  the  way  of  quotations,  I shall 
give  you  another  from  the  same  piece,  peculiar- 
ly, alas  ! too  peculiarly  apposite,  my  dear  Mad- 
am, to  your  present  frame  of  mind  : 

“ Who  so  unworthy  but  inay  proudly  deck  him 
With  his  fair-weather  virtue,  that  exults 
Glad  o’er  the  summer  main  7 the  tempest  comes, 
The  rough  winds  rage  aloud  ; when  from  the  helm 
This  virtue  shrinks,  and  in  a corner  lies 
Lamenting — Heavens  ! if  privileged  from  trial 
How  cheap  a thng  were  virtue  !” 

I do  not  remember  to  have  heard  you  men- 
tion Thomson’s  dramas.  I pick  up  favorite 
quotations,  and  store  them  in  my  mind  as  ready 
armor,  offensive  or  defensive,  amid  the  struggle 
of  this  turbulent  existence.  Of  these  is  one,  a 
very  favorite  one,  from  his  Alfred  : 

“Attach  thee  firmly  to  the  virtuous  deeds 
And  offices  of  life  ; to  life  itself. 

With  all  its  vain  and  transient  joys,  sit  loose.” 

Probably  I have  quoted  some  of  these  to  you 
formerly,  as  indeed  when  I write  from  the  heart 
[ am  apt  to  be  guilty  of  such  repetitions.  The 
compass  of  the  heart,  in  the  musical  style  of  ex- 
pression, is  much  more  bounded  than  that  of 
the  imagination  ; so  the  notes  of  the  former  are 
extremely  apt  to  run  into  one  another;  but  in 
return  for  the  paucity  of  its  compass,  its  few 
notes  are  much  more  sweet.  I must  still 
give  you  another  quotation,  which  I am  almost 
sure  I have  given  you  before,  but  I cannot  re- 
sist the  temptation.  The  subject  is  religion — 
speaking  of  its  importance  to  mankind,  the  au- 
thor says, 


ing;  or  rather  the  republican  spirit  of  your  part 
of  the  kingdom.  Indeed  we  are  a good  deal  in 
commotion  ourselves.  For  me,  I am  a ■place- 
man you  know  ; a very  humble  one  indeed, 
Heaven  knows,  but  still  so  much  so  as  to  gag 
me.  What  my  private  sentiments  are,  you  will 
find  out  without  an  interpreter. 

* * * * 

I have  taken  up  the  subject  in  another  view, 
and  the  other  day,  for  a pretty  Actress’s  bene- 
fit-night, I wrote  an  Address,  which  I will  give 
on  the  other  page,  called  The  Eights  of  IFo- 
man.* 

I shall  have  the  honor  of  receiving  your  criti- 
cisms in  person  at  Dunlop. 


No.  CXXXVII. 

TO  MISS  B ***** , OF  YORK. 

21s?  March,  1792. 

Madam, — 

Among  many  things  for  which  I envy  those 
hale  long-lived  old  fellows  before  the  flood,  is 
this  in  particular,  that  when  they  met  with  any 
body  after  their  own  heart,  they  had  a charming 
long  prospect  of  many,  many  happy  meetings 
with  them  in  after-life. 

Now,  in  this  short,  stormy,  winter  day  of  our 
fleeting  existence,  when  you,  now  and  then,  in 
the  Chapter  of  Accidents,  meet  an  individual 
whose  acquaintance  is  a real  acquisition,  there 
are  all  the  probabilities  against  you,  that  you 
will  never  meet  with  that  valued  character  more. 
On  the  other  hand,  brief  as  this  miserable  being 
is,  it  is  none  of  the  least  of  the  miseries  belong, 
ing  to  it,  that  if  there  is  any  miscreant  whom 
you  hate,  or  creature  whom  you  despise,  the  ill 
run  of  the  chances  shall  be  so  against  you,  that 
in  the  overtakings,  turnings,  and  jostlings  of  life, 
pop,  at  some  unlucky  corner  eternally  comes 
the  wretch  upon  you,  and  will  not  allow  your 
indignation  or  contempt  a moment’s  repose.  As 
I am  a sturdy  believer  in  the  powers  of  darkness, 
I take  these  to  be  the  doings  of  that  old  author 
of  mischief,  the  devil.  It  is  well  known  that  he 
has  some  kind  of  short-hand  way  of  taking  down 
our  thoughts,  and  I make  no  doubt  that  he  is 
perfectly  acquainted  with  my  sentiments  re- 
specting Miss  B — ; how  much  I admired  her 
abilities,  and  valued  her  worth,  and  how  very 
fortunate  I thought  myself  in  her  acquaintance. 
For  this  last  reason,  my  dear  Madam,  I must 
entertain  no  hopes  of  the  very  great  pleasure  of 
meeting  with  you  again. 

Miss  H tells  me  that  she  is  sending  a 

packet  to  you,  and  I beg  leave  to  send  you  the 
enclosed  sonnet,  though  to  tell  you  the  real  truth, 
the  sonnet  is  a mere  pretence,  that  I may  have 
the  opportunity  of  declaring  with  how  much  re- 
spectful esteem  I have  the  honor  to  be,  &c. 


41  Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning  bright, 
’Tis  fAisthat  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night. 

When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends  are  few. 
When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes  pursue  ; 
’Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the  smart, 
Disarms  affliction,  or  repels  his  dart ; 

Within  the  breast  bids  purest  raptures  rise, 

Bids  srrol  ng  conscience  spread  her  cloudless  skies.” 

I see  you  are  in  for  double  postage,  so  I shall 
e’en  scribble  out  t’other  sheet.  We  in  this 

country  here,  have  many  alarms  of  the  reform- 


No.  CXXXVIII. 

TO  MISS  O****. 


August,  1793. 

Madam, — 

Some  rather  unlooked-for  accidents  have  pre- 
vented my  doing  myself  (he  honor  of  a second 
visit  to  Arbeigland,  as  I was  so  hospitably  invi- 
f See  Poems,  p.  62. 


286 


LETTERS. 


ted,  and  so  positively  meant  to  have  done. — 
However,  I still  hope  to  have  that  pleasure  be- 
fore the  busy  months  of  harvest  begin. 

I enclose  you  two  of  my  late  pieces,  as  some 
kind  of  return  for  the  pleasure  I have  received  in 
perusing  a certain  MS.  volume  of  poems  in  the 
possession  of  Captain  Riddel.  To  repay  one 
with  an  old  song,  is  a proverb,  whose  force, 
you  Madam,  I know  will  not  allow.  What  is 
said  of  illustrious  descent  is,  I believe  equally 
true  of  a talent  for  poetry,  none  ever  depised  it 
who  had  pretensions  to  it.  The  fates  and  char- 
acters of  the  rhyming  tribe  often  employ  my 
thoughts  when  I am  disposed  to  be  melancholy. 
There  is  not  among  all  the  martyrologies  that 
ever  were  penned,  so  rueful  a narrative  as  the 
lives  of  the  poets. — In  the  comparative  view  of 
wretches,  the  criterion  is  not  what  they  are 
doomed  to  suffer,  but  how  they  are  formed  to 
bear.  Take  a being  of  our  kind,  give  him  a 
stronger  imagination  and  a more  delicate  sensi- 
bility, which  between  them  will  ever  engender 
a more  ungovernable  set  of  passions  than  are  the 
usual  lot  of  man,  implant  in  him  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  some  idle  vagary,  such  as  arranging 
wild  flowers  in  fantastical  nosegays,  tracing  the 
grasshopper  to  his  haunt  by  his  chirping  song, 
watching  the  frisks  of  the  little  minnows,  in  the 
sunny  pool,  or  hunting  after  the  intrigues  of 
butterflies — in  short,  send  him  adrift  after  some 
pursuit  which  shall  eternally  mislead  him  from 
the  paths  ot  lucre,  and  yet  curse  him  with  a 
keener  relish  than  any  man  living  for  the  pleas- 
ures that  lucre  can  purchase  : lastly,  fill  up  the 
measure  of  his  woes  by  bestowing  on  him  a 
spurning  sense  of  his  own  dignity,  and  you  have 
created  a wight  nearly  as  miserable  as  a poet. 
To  you,  Madam,  I need  not  recount  the  fairy 
pleasures  the  muse  bestows  to  counterbalance 
this  catalogue  of  evils.  Bewitching  poetry  is 
like  bewitching  woman  ; she  has  in  all  ages  been 
accused  of  misleading  mankind  from  the  coun- 
cils of  wisdom  and  the  paths  of  prudence,  in- 
volving them  in  difficulties,  baiting  them  with 
poverty,  branding  them  with  infamy,  and  plun- 
ging them  in  the  whirling  vortex  of  ruin  ; yet 
where  is  the  man  but  must  own  that  all  our 
happiness  on  earth  is  not  worthy  the  name — 
that  even  the  holy  hermit’s  solitary  prospect  of 
paradisaical  bliss  is  but  the  glitter  of  a northern 
sun  rising  over  a frozen  region,  compared  with 
the  many  pleasures,  the  nameless  raptures 
that  we  owe  to  the  lovely  Queen  of  the  heart 
of  Man  ! 


No.  CXXXIX. 


TO  JOHN  M’MURDO,  ESQ. 


December,  1793. 

Sir,— 

It  is  said  we  take  greatest  liberties  with  our 
greatest  friends,  and  I pay  myself  a very  high 
compliment  in  the  manner  in  which  I am  going 
to  apply  the  remark.  I have  owed  you  money 
longer  than  ever  I owed  to  any  man.  Here  is 
Ker’s  account,  and  here  are  six  guineas ; and 
now,  f don’t  owe  a shilling  to  man— or  woman 
either.  But  for  these  damned  dirty,  dog’s-ear- 
ed little  pages,*  I had  done  myself  the  honor  to 
have  waited  on  you  long  ago.  Independent  of 
* Scottish  Bank  Notes. 


the  obligations  your  hospitality  has  laid  me  un- 
der ; the  consciousness  of  your  superiority  in 
the  rank  of  man  and  gentleman,  of  itself  was 
fully  as  much  as  I could  ever  make  head  against; 
but  to  owe  you  money  too,  was  more  than  I 
could  face. 

1 think  I once  mentioned  something  of  a col- 
lection of  Scots  songs  I have  some  years  been 
making  ; I send  you  a perusal  of  what  I have 
got  together.  I could  not  conveniently  spare 
them  above  five  or  six  days,  and  five  or  six 
glances  of  them  will  probably  more  than  suffice 
you.  A very  few'  of  them  are  my  own.  When 
you  are  tired  of  them,  please  leave  them  with 
Mr.  Clint  of  the  King’s  Arms.  There  is  not 
another  copy  of  the  collection  in  the  world;  and 
I should  be  sorry  that  any  unfortunate  negli- 
gence should  deprive  me  of  what  has  cost  me  a 
good  deal  of  pains. 


No.  CXL. 

TO  MRS.  R * * * * *, 

Who  was  to  bespeak  a Play  one  Evening  at  the 
Dumfries  Theatre. 

I am  thinking  to  send  my  Address  to  some 
periodical  publication,  but  it  has  not  got  your 
sanction,  so  pray  look  over  it. 

As  to  the  Tuesday’s  play,  let  me  beg  of  you, 
my  dear  Madam,  to  give  us,  The  Wonder,  a 
Woman  keeps  a Secret  ! to  which  please  add, 
The  Svoilt  Child — you  will  highly  oblige  me 
by  so  doing. 

Ah  ! what  an  enviable  creature  you  are  ! There 
now,  this  cursed  gloomy  bluedevil  day,  you  are 
going  to  a party  of  choice  spirits — 

“ To  play  the  shapes 
Of  frolic  fancy,  and  incessant  form 
Those  rapid  pictures,  that  assembled  train 
Of  fleet  ideas,  never  join’d  before, 

Where  lively  wit  excites  to  gay  surprise  ; 

Or  folly-painting  humor,  grave  himself, 

Calls  laughter  forth,  deep-shaking  every  nerve.” 

But  as  you  rejoice  with  them  that  do  rejoice, 
do  also  remember  to  weep  with  them  that  weep, 
and  pity  your  melancholy  friend. 


No.  CXLI. 

TO  A LADY  IN  FAVOR  OF  A 
FLAYER’S  BENEFIT. 

Madam, — 

You  were  so  very  good  as  to  promise  me  to 
honor  my  friend  with  your  presence  on  his  ben- 
efit-night. That  night  is  fixed  for  Friday  first  ! 
the  plav  a most  interesting  one  ! The  Way  to 
Keep  Him.  I have  the  pleasure  to  know  Mr.  G. 
well.  His  merit  as  an  actor  is  generally  ac- 
knowledged. He  has  genius  and  worth,  w'hich 
would  do  honor  to  patronage  ; he  is  a poor  and 
modest  man  : claims  which  from  their  very  si- 
lence have  the  more  forcible  power  on  the  gen- 
erous heart.  Alas,  for  pity  ! that  from  the  in- 
dolence of  those  who  have  the  good  things  of 
this  life  in  their  gift,  too  often  does  brazen-fron- 
ted  importunity  snatch  that  boon,  the  rightful 
due  of  retiring,  humble  want ! Of  all  thtiqual- 


LETTERS. 


287 


ities  we  assign  to  the  author  and  director  of  Na- 
ture, by  far  the  most  enviable  is — to  be  able  “to 
wipe  away  all  tears  from  all  eyes.”  O what 
insignificant,  sordid  wretches  are  they,  however 
chance  may  have  loaded  them  with  wealth,  who 
go  to  their  graves,  to  their  magnificent  mauso- 
leums, with  hardly  the  consciousness  of  having 
made  one  poor  honest  heart  happy  ! 

But  I crave  your  pardon,  Madam,  1 came  to 
beg,  not  to  preach. 

No.  CXLII. 

EXTRACT  OF  A LETTER 

TO  MR.  

1794. 

I am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind 
mention  of  my  interests,  in  a letter  which  Mr. 
S***  showed  me.  At  present,  my  situation  in 
life  must  be  in  a great  measure  stationary,  at 
least  for  two  or  thee  years.  The  statement  is 
this — I am  on  the  supervisors’  list ; and  as  we 
come  on  there  by  precedency,  in  two  or  three 
years  I shall  be  at  the  head  of  that  list,  and  be 
appointed  of  course — then  a Friend  might  be  of 
service  to  me  in  getting  me  into  a place  of  the 
kingdom  which  1 would  like.  A supervisor’s 
income  varies  from  about  a hundred  and  twenty 
to  two  hundred  a-year  : but  the  business  is  an 
incessant  drudgery,  and  would  be  nearly  a com- 
plete bar  to  every  species  of  literary  pursuit.  The 
moment  I am  appointed  supervisor  in  the  com- 
mon routine,  I may  be  nominated  on  the  Collec- 
tor’s list ; and  this  is  always  a business  purely 
of  political  patronage.  A collectorship  varies 
much,  from  better  than  two  hundred  a-year  to 
near  a thousand.  They  also  come  forward  by 
precedency  on  the  list,  and  have  besides  a hand- 
some income,  a life  of  complete  leisure.  A life 
of  literary  leisure,  with  a decent  competence, 
is  the  summit  of  my  wishes.  It  would  be  the 
prudish  affectation  of  silly  pride  in  me  to  say 
that  1 do  not  need,  or  would  not  be  indebted  to 
a political  friend ; at  the  same  time,  Sir,  I 
by  no  means  lay  my  affairs  before  you  thus  to 
hook  my  dependent  situation  on  your  benevo- 
lence. If,  in  my  progress  in  life,  an  opening 
should  occur  where  the  good  offices  of  a gen- 
tleman of  your  public  character  and  political 
consequence  might  bring  me  forward,  I will  pe- 
tition your  goodness  with  the  same  frankness 
and  sincerity  as  I now  do  myself  the  honor  to 
subscribe  myself,  &c. 


NO.  CXLIII. 

TO  MRS.  R * * * * . 

Dear  Madam, — 

I meant  to  have  called  on  you  yesternight  ; 
but  as  I edged  up  to  your  box-door,  the  first 
object  which  greeted  my  view  was  one  of  those 
lobster-coated  puppies,  sitting  like  another  drag- 
on, guarding  the  Hesperian  fruit.  On  the  con- 
ditions and  capitulations  you  so  obligingly  offer, 
I shall  certainly  make  my  weather-beaten  rustic 
phiz  a part  of  your  box-furniture  on  Tuesday, 
when  we  may  arrange  the  business  of  the  visit. 
* * * * 

Among  the  profusion  of  idle  compliments, 
which  insidious  craft,  or  unmeaning  folly,  in- 


cessantly offer  at  your  shrine — a shrine,  how 
far  exalted  above  such  adoration — permit  me, 
were  it  but  for  rarity’s  sake,  to  pay  you  the 
honest  tribute  of  a warm  heart  and  an  indepen- 
dent mind  ; and  to  assure  you  that  1 am,  thou 
most  amiable,  and  most  accomplished  of  thy 
sex,  with  the  most  respectful  esteem,  and  fer- 
vent regard,  thine,  &,c. 

No.  CXLIV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I will  wait  on  you.  my  ever-valued  friend, 
but  whether  in  the  morning  I am  not  sure.  Sun- 
day closes  a period  of  our  cursed  revenue  busi- 
ness, and  may  probably  keep  me  employed  with 
my  pen  until  noon.  Fine  employment  for  a 
poet’s  pen  ! There  is  a species  of  the  human 
genus  that  I call  the  gin-horse  class  : what  en- 
viable dogs  they  are!  Round,  and  round,  and 
round  they  go — Mundell’s  ox,  that  drives  his 
cotton-mill,  is  their  exact  prototype — without  an 
idea  or  wish  beyond  their  circle  ; fat,  sleek,  stu- 
pid, patient,  quiet,  and  contented  : while  here  I 

sit,  altogether  Novemberish,  a d melange 

of  fretfulness  and  melancholy  ; not  enough  of 
the  one  to  rouse  me  to  passion,  nor  of  the  other 
to  repose  me  in  torpor  ; my  sou!  flouncing  and 
fluttering  round  her  tenement,  like  a wild  finch 
caught  amid  the  horrors  of  winter,  and  newly 
thrust  into  a cage.  Well,  I am  persuaded  that 
it  was  of  me  the  Hebrew  sage  prophesied,  when 
he  foretold — And  behold,  on  whatsoever  this 
man  doth  set  his  heart,  it  shall  not  prosper !”  If 
my  resentment  is  awakened,  it  is  sure  to  be 
where  it  dare  not  squeak  ; and  if— 

* * * # 

Pray  that  wisdom  and  bliss  be  more  frequent 
visitors  of  R.  B. 


No.  CXLV. 

TO  THE  SAME  . 

I have  this  moment  got  the  song  from  S***, 
and  I am  sorry  to  see  that  he  has  spoilt  it  a 
good  deal.  It  shall  be  a lesson  to  me  how  I 
lend  him  anything  again. 

I have  sent  you  Werter , truly  happy  to  have 
any.  the  smallest  opportunity  of  obliging  you. 

’Tis  true,  Madam,  I saw  you  once  since  I 

was  at  W ; and  that  once  froze  the  very 

life-blood  of  my  heart.  Your  reception  of  me 
was  such,  that  a wretch  meeting  the  eye  of  his 
judge,  about  to  pronounce  the  sentence  of  death, 
on  him,  could  only  have  envied  my  feelings  and 
situation.  But  I hate  the  theme,  and  never 
more  shall  write  or  speak  on  it. 

One  thing  I shall  proudly  say,  that  I can  pay 
Mrs. a higher  tribute  of  esteem,  and  appre- 

ciate her  amiable  worth  more  truly,  than  any 
man  whom  I have  seen  approach  her. 

No.  CLXVI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I have  often  told  you,  my  dear  friend,  that 
you  had  a spice  of  caprice  in  your  composition, 
and  you  have  as  often  disavowed  it:  even,  per- 


LETTERS. 


288 


haps,  while  your  opinions  were,  at  the  moment, 
irrefragably  proving  it.  Could  anything  es- 
trange me  from  a friend  such  as  you? — No! 
To-morrow  I shall  have  the  honor  of  waiting 
on  you. 

Farewell  thou  first  of  friends,  and  most  ac- 
complished of  women  : even  with  all  thy  little 
caprices  ! 


No.  CXLVII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Madam, 

I return  your  common-place  book  ; I have 
perused  it  with  much  pleasure,  and  would  have 
continued  my  criticisms  ; but  as  it  seems  the 
critic  has  forfeited  your  esteem,  his  strictures 
must  lose  their  value. 

If  it  is  true  that  “offences  come  only  from 
the  heart/’  before  you  I am  guiltless.  To  ad- 
mire, esteem,  and  prize  you,  as  the  most  ac- 
complished of  women,  and  the  first  of  friends — 
if  these  are  crimes,  I am  the  most  offending 
thing  alive. 

In  a face  where  I used  to  meet  the  kind  com- 
placency of  friendly  confidence,  now  to  find 
cold  neglect  and  contemptuous  scorn  — is  a 
wrench  that  my  heart  can  ill  bear.  It  is,  how- 
ever, some  kind  of  miserable  good  luck,  that 
while  de  haul-en-bas  rigor  may  depress  an  unof- 
fending wretch  to  the  ground,  it  has  a tenden- 
cy to  rouse  a stubborn  something  in  his  bosom, 
which,  though  it  cannot  heal  the  wounds  of  his 
soul,  is  at  least  an  opiate  to  blunt  their  poig- 
nancy. 

With  the  profoundest  respect  for  your  abili- 
ties ; the  most  sincere  esteem  and  ardent  regard 
for  your  gentle  heart  and  amiable  manners  ; 
and  the  most  fervent  wish  and  prayer  for  your 
welfare,  peace,  and  bliss,  I have  the  honor  to 
be,  Madam,  your  most  devoted,  humble  ser- 
vant. 

No.  CXLVIII. 

TO  JOHN  SYME,  ESQ. 

Y ou  know  that,  among  other  high  dignities, 
you  have  the  honor  to  be  my  supreme  court  of 
critical  judicature,  from  which  there  is  no  appeal. 
I enclose  you  a song  which  I composed  since  I 
saw  you,  and  I am  going  to  give  you  the  histo- 
ry of  it.  Do  you  know,  that  among  much  that 
I admire  in  the  characters  and  manners  of  those 
great  folks  whom  I have  now  the  honor  to  call 
my  acquaintances,  the  O*****  family,  there  is 
nothing  charms  me  more  than  Mr.  O’s.  uncon- 
cealable  attachment  to  that  incomparable  wo- 
man. Did  you  ever,  my  dear  Syme,  meet  wiih 
a man  who  owed  more  to  the  Divine  Giver  of  all 
good  things  than  Mr.  O.  A fine  fortune,  a pleas- 
ing exterior,  self-evident  amiable  dispositions, 
and  an  ingenuous  upright  mind,  and  that  inform- 
ed too,  much  beyond  the  usual  run  of  young 
follows  of  his  rank  and  fortune  : and  to  all  this, 
such  a woman  ! — but  of  her  I shall  say  noth- 
ing at  all,  in  despair  of  saying  anything  ad- 
equate. In  my  song,  I have  endeavored  to  do 
justice  to  what  would  be  his  feelings,  on  seeing, 
in  the  scene  I have  drawn,  the  habitation  of  his 


Lucy.  As  I am  a good  deal  pleased  with  my 
performance,  I in  my  first  fervor,  thought  of 

sending  it  to  Mrs.  0. ; but  on  second 

thoughts,  perhaps  what  I offer  as  honest  incense 
of  genuine  respect,  might,  from  the  well-known 
character  of  poverty  and  poetry,  be  construed 
into  some  modification  or  other  of  that  servility 
which  my  soul  abhors.* 


No.  CXLIX. 

TO  MISS 

Madam, 

Nothing  short  of  a kind  of  absolute  necessity 
could  have  made  me  trouble  you  with  this  let- 
ter. Except  my  ardent  and  just  esteem  for 
your  sense,  taste,  and  worth,  every  sentiment 
arising  in  my  breast,  as  I put  pen  to  paper  to 
you,  is  painful.  The  scenes  I have  passed  with 
the  friend  of  my  soul  and  his  amiable  connex- 
ions ! the  wrench  at  my  heart  to  think  that  he 
is  gone,  forever  gone  from  me,  never  more  to 
meet  in  the  wanderings  of  a weary  world  ! and 
the  cutting  reflection  of  all  that  I had  most  un- 
fortunately, though  most  undeservedly,  lost  the 
confidence  of  that  soul  of  worth,  ere  it  took  its 
flight ! 

These,  Madam,  are  sensations  of  no  ordina- 
ry anguish.  However,  you  also  may  be  offen- 
ded with  some  imputed  improprieties  of  mine  ; 
sensibility  you  know  I possess,  and  sincerity 
none  will  deny  me. 

To  oppose  those  prejudices  which  have  been 
raised  against  me,  is  not  the  business  of  this  let- 
ter. Indeed  it  is  a warfare  I know  not  how  to 
wage.  The  powers  of  positive  vice  I can  in 
some  degree  calculate,  and  against  direct  ma- 
levolence I can  be  on  my  guard ; but  who  can 
estimate  the  fatuity  of  giddy  caprice,  or  ward 
off  the  unthinking  mischief  of  precipitate  folly  ? 

I have  a favor  to  request  of  you,  Madam  ; 
and  of  your  sister  Mrs. — , through  your  means. 
You  know  that,  at  the  wish  of  my  late  friend, 
I made  a collection  of  all  my  trifles  in  verse 
which  I had  ever  written.  There  are  many  of 
them  local,  some  of  them  puerile  and  silly,  and 
all  of  them,  unfit  for  the  public  eye.  As  I have 
some  little  fame  at  stake,  a fame  that  I trust 
may  live  when  the  hate  of  those  “ who  watch 
for  my  halting,”  and  the  contumelious  sneer  of 
those  whom  accident  has  made  my  superiors, 
will,  with  themselves,  be  gone  to  the  regions 
of  oblivion ; I am  uneasy  now  for  the  fate  of 

those  manuscripts.  Will  Mrs. have  the 

goodness  to  destroy  them,  or  return  them  to 
me  ? As  a pledge  of  friendship  they  were  be- 
stowed ; and  that  circumstance  indeed  was  all 
their  merit.  Most  unhappily  for  me,  that  merit 
they  no  longer  possess;  and  I hope  that  Mrs. 

’s  goodness,  which  I well  know,  and  ever 

will  revere,  will  not  refuse  th:s  favor  to  a man 
whom  she  once  held  in  some  degree  of  estima- 
tion. 

With  the  sincerest  esteem.  I have  the  honor 
to  be,  Madam,  &c. 

* The  song  enclosed  was  that,  given  in  Poems, 
page  88,  beginning 

0 wat  ye  wha’s  in  yon  town  ? E. 


LETTERS. 


289 


No.  CL. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

25 th  February,  1794. 

Canst  thou  minister  to  a mind  diseased  ? 
Canst  thou  speak  peace  and  rest  to  a soul  tossed 
on  a sea  of  troubles,  without  one  friendly  star 
to  guide  her  course,  and  dreading  that  the  next 
surge  may  overwhelm  her  ? Canst  thou  give 
to  a frame,  tremblingly  alive  to  the  tortures  of 
suspense,  the  stability  and  hardihood  of  the 
rock  that  braves  the  blast  ? If  thou  canst  not 
do  the  least  of  these,  why  wouldst  thou  disturb 
me  in  my  miseries  with  thy  inquiries  after  me  ? 

# # # # 

For  these  two  months,  I have  not  been  able 
to  lift  a pen.  My  constitution  and  frame  were 
ab  origine,  blasted  with  a deep  incurable  taint 
of  hypochondria,  which  poisons  my  existence. 
Of  late,  a number  of  domestic  vexations,  and 
some  pecuniary  share  in  the  ruin  of  these  * * * 
**  times;  losses  which,  though  trifling,  were 
yet  W'hat  1 could  ill  bear,  have  so  irritated  me, 
that  my  feelings  at  times  could  only  be  envied 
by  a reprobate  spirit  listening  to  the  sentence 
that  dooms  it  to  perdition. 

Are  you  deep  in  the  language  of  consolation  ? 
I have  exhausted  in  reflection  every  topic  of 
comfort.  A heart  at  ease  would  have  been 
charmed  with  my  sentiments  and  reasonings, 
but  as  to  myself,  I was  like  Judas  Iscariot 
preaching  the  Gospel : he  might  melt  and 
mould  the  hearts  of  those  around  him,  but  his 
own  kept  its  native  incorrigibility. 

Still  there  are  two  great  pillars  that  bear  us 
up,  amid  the  wreck  of  misfortune  and  misery. 
The  one  is  composed  of  the  different  modifica- 
tions of  a certain  noble,  stubborn  something  in 
man,  known  by  the  names  of  courage,  fortitude, 
magnanimity.  The  other  is  made  up  of  those 
feelings  and  sentiments,  which,  however  the 
sceptic  may  deny  them,  or  the  enthusiast  disfig- 
ure them,  are  yet,  I am  convinced,  original  and 
component  parts  of  the  human  soul : those 
senses  of  the  mind,  if  I may  be  allowed  the  ex- 
pression, which  connect  us  with,  and  link  us 
to,  those  awful  obscure  realities — an  all-power- 
ful, and  equally  beneficent  God  ; and  a world  to 
come,  beyond  death  and  the  grave.  The  first 
gives  the  nerve  of  combat,  while  a ray  of  hope 
beams  on  the  field: — the  last  pours  the  balm  of 
comfort  into  the  wounds  which  time  can  never 
cure. 

I do  not  remember,  my  dear  Cunningham, 
that  you  and  I ever  talked  on  the  subject  of  re- 
ligion at  all.  I know  some  who  laugh  at  it,  as 
the  trick  of  the  crafty  few,  to  lead  the  undis- 
cerning many  ; or  at  most  as  an  uncertain  obscu- 
rity, which  mankind  can  never  know  anything 
of,  and  with  which  they  are  fools  if  they  give 
themselves  much  to  do.  Nor  would  I quarrel 
with  a man  for  his  irreligion,  any  more  than  I 
would  for  his  want  of  a musical  ear.  I would 
regret  that  he  was  shut  out  from  what,  to  me 
and  to  others,  were  such  superlative  sources  of 
enjoyment.  It  is  in  this  point  of  view,  and  for 
this  reason,  that  I will  deeply  imbue  the  mind 
of  every  child  of  mine  with  religion.  If  my 
eon  should  happen  to  be  a man  of  feeling,  sen- 
timent, and  taste,  I shall  thus  add  largely  to  his 
•njoyments.  Let  me  flatter  myself  that  this 


sweet  little  fellow,  who  is  just  now  running 
about  my  desk,  will  be  a man  of  melting,  ar- 
dent, glowing  heart ; and  an  imagination,  de- 
lighted with  the  painter,  and  rapt  with  the  poet. 
Let  me  figure  him  wandering  out  in  a sweet 
evening,  to  inhale  the  balmy  gales,  and  enjoy 
the  growing  luxuriance  of  the  spring  ! himself 
the  while  in  the  blooming  youth  of  life.  He 
looks  abroad  on  all  nature,  and  through  na- 
ture up  to  nature’s  God.  His  soul,  by  swift  de- 
lighting degrees,  is  rapt  above  this  sublunary 
sphere,  until  he  can  be  silent  no  longer,  and 
bursts  out  into  the  glorious  enthusiasm  of 
Thomson, 

“ These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 

Are  but  the  varied  God.  The  rolling  year 

Is  full  of  thee.” 

And  so  on  in  all  the  spirit  and  ardour  of  that 
charming  hymn. 

These  are  no  ideal  pleasures  ; they  are  real 
delights  : and  I ask  what  delights  among  the 
sons  of  men  are  superior,  not  to  say  equal, 
to  them  ? And  they  have  this  precious,  vast 
addition,  that  conscious  virtue  stamps  them  for 
her  own  ; and  lays  hold  on  them  to  bring  her- 
self into  the  presence  of  a witnessing,  judging, 
and  approving  God. 


No.  CLI. 

TO  MRS.****. 

Supposes  himself  to  be  writing  from  the  Dead  to 
the  Living. 

Madam, 

I dare  say  this  is  the  first  epistle  you  ever  re- 
ceived from  this  nether  world.  I write  you 
from  the  regions  of  Hell,  amid  the  horrors  of 
the  damned.  The  time  and  manner  of  my 
leaving  your  earth  I do  not  exactly  know,  as  I 
took  my  departure  in  the  heat  of  a fever  of  in- 
toxication, contracted  at  your  too  hospitable 
mansion  ; but,  on  my  arrival  here,  I was  fairly 
tried  and  sentenced  to  endure  the  purgatorial 
tortures  of  this  infernal  confine  for  the  space  of 
ninety-nine  years,  eleven  months,  and  twenty- 
nine  days,  and  all  on  account  of  the  impropriety 
of  my  conduct  yesternight  under  your  roof. 
Here  am  I,  laid  on  a bed  of  pitiless  furze,  with 
my  aching  head  reclined  on  a pillow  of  ever- 
piercing  thorn ; while  an  infernal  tormentor, 
wrinkled,  and  old,  and  cruel,  his  name  I think 
is  Recollection,  with  a whip  of  scorpions,  for- 
bids peace  or  rest  to  approach  me,  and  keeps 
anguish  eternally  awake.  Still,  Madam,  if  I 
could  in  any  measure  be  reinstated  in  the  good 
opinion  of  the  fair  circle  whom  my  conduct  last 
night  so  much  injured,  I think  it  would  be  an 
alleviation  to  my  torments.  For  this  reason  I 
trouble  you  with  this  letter.  To  the  men  of 
the  company  I will  make  no  apology.  Your 
husband,  who  insisted  on  my  drinking  more 
than  I chose,  has  no  right  to  blame  me ; and 
the  other  gentlemen  were  partakers  of  my  guilt. 
But  to  you,  Madam,  I have  much  to  apologize. 
Your  good  opinion  I valued  as  one  of  the  great- 
est acquisitions  I had  made  on  earth,  and  I was 
truly  a beast  to  forfeit  it.  There  was  a Miss 

I , too,  a woman  of  fine  sense,  gentle  and 

unassuming  manners — do  make,  on  my  part,  a 


290 


LETTERS. 


miserable  d d wretch’s  best  apology  to  her. 

A Mrs.  G , a charming  woman,  did  me  the 

honor  to  be  prejudiced  in  my  favor  ; — this  makes 
me  hope  that  I have  not  outraged  her  beyond 
all  forgiveness.  To  all  the  other  ladies  please 
present  my  humblest  contrition  for  my  conduct, 
and  my  petition  for  their  gracious  pardon.  O, 
all  ye  powers  of  decency  and  decorum  ! whis- 
per to  them,  that  my  errors,  though  great,  were 
involuntary — that  an  intoxicated  man  is  the  vil- 
est of  beasts — that  it  was  not  my  nature  to  be 
brutal  to  any  one — that  to  be  rude  to  a woman, 
when  in  my  senses,  was  impossible  with  me 
— but — 

* * * * 

Regret ! Remorse  ! Shame  ! ye  three  hell- 
hounds that  ever  dog  my  steps  and  bay  at  my 
heels,  spare  me  ! spare  me  ! 

Forgive  the  offences,  and  pity  the  perdition 
of,  Madam, 

Your  humble  slave. 


No.  CLH. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

5 tk  December , 1795. 

My  Dear  Friend,— 

As  I am  in  a complete  Decemberish  humor, 
gloomy,  sullen,  stupid,  as  even  the  deity  of 
Dulness  herself  could  wish,  I shall  not  drawl 
out  a heavy  letter  with  a number  of  heavier 
apologies  for  my  late  silence.  Only  one  I shall 
mention,  because  I know  you  will  sympathize 
in  it : these  four  months,  a sweet  little  girl,  my 
youngest  child,  has  been  so  ill,  that  every  day  a 
week  or  less,  threatened  to  terminate  her  exist- 
ence. There  had  much  need  be  many  pleas- 
ures annexed  to  the  states  of  husband  and  fath- 
er, for  God  knows,  they  have  many  peculiar 
cares.  I cannot  describe  to  you  the  anxious 
sleepless  hours,  these  ties  frequently  give  me. 
I see  a train  of  helpless  little  folks  ; me  and  my 
exertions  all  their  stay  ; and  on  what  a brittle 
thread  does  the  life  of  man  hang  ! If  1 am  nipt 
off  at  the  command  of  Fate,  even  in  all  the  vig- 
or of  manhood  as  I am — such  things  happen  ev- 
ery day — gracious  God  ! w hat  would  become 
of  my  little  flock!  ’Tis  here  that  1 envy  your  peo- 
ple of  fortune  ! A father  on  his  deathbed,  tak- 
ing an  everlasting  leave  of  his  children,  has  in- 
deed wo  enough  ; but  the  man  of  competent 
fortune  leaves  his  sons  and  daughters  indepen- 
dency and  friends  ; whlie  I — but  I shall  run  dis- 
tracted if  I think  any  longer  on  the  subject ! 

To  leave  talking  of  the  matter  so  gravely,  I 
shall  sing  with  the  old  Scots  ballad — 

“ O that  I had  ne’er  been  married, 

I would  never  had  nae  care  ; 

Now  I’ve  gotten  wife  and  bairns. 

They  cry  crowdie  ! evermair. 

Crowdie  ! ance  ! crowdie  twice  ; 

Crowdie  ! three  times  in  a day  ; 

An  ye  crowdie  ony  mair, 

Ye’ll  crowdie  a’  my  meal  away.” 

* * * * 

December  24 th. 

We  have  had  a brilliant  theatre  here  this  sea- 
son ; only  as  all  other  business  has,  it  experien- 


ces a stagnation  of  trade  from  the  epidemical 
complaint  of  the  country,  want  of  cash.  I men- 
tion our  theatre  merely  to  lug  in  an  occasional 
Address  which  I wrote  for  the  benefit  night  of 
one  of  the  actresses,  and  which  is  as  follows. * 

2bth,  Christmas  Morning . 

This,  my  much-loved  friend,  is  a morning  of 
wishes ; accept  mine — so  heaven  hear  me  as 
they  are  sincere  ! that  blessings  may  attend 
your  steps,  and  affliction  know  you  not ! in  the 
charming  words  of  my  favorite  author,  The 
Man  of  Feeling,  “ May  the  Great  Spirit  bear 
up  the  weight  of  thy  gray  hairs,  and  blunt  the 
arrow  that  brings  them  rest  !” 

Now  that  I talk  of  authors,  how  do  you  like 
Cowper  ? Is  not  the  Task  a glorious  poem  ? 
The  religion  of  the  Task,  bating  a few  scraps 
of  Calvinistic  divinity,  is  the  religion  of  God 
and  Nature  ; the  religion  that  exalts,  that  enno- 
bles man.  Were  not  you  to  send  me  your  Ze- 
luco,  in  return  for  mine  ? Tell  me  how  you 
like  my  marks  and  notes  through  the  book.  I 
would  not  give  a farthing  for  a book,  unless 
I were  at  liberty  to  blot  it  with  my  criticisms. 

I have  lately  collected,  for  a friend’s  perusal, 
all  my  letters.  I mean  those  which  I first 
sketched  in  a rough  draught,  and  afterwards 
wrote  out  fair.  On  looking  over  some  old 
musty  papers,  which,  from  time  to  time,  I had 
parcelled  by,  as  trash  that  were  scarce  worth 
preserving,  and  which  yet  at  the  same  time  I 
did  not  care  to  destroy  ; I discovered  many  of 
these  rude  sketches,  and  have  written  and  am 
writing  them  out,  in  a bound  MS.  for  my 
j friend’s  library.  As  I wrote  always  to  you  the 
rhapsody  of  the  moment,  l cannot  find  a single 
scroll  to  you,  except  one,  about  the  commence- 
ment of  our  acquaintance.  If  there  were  any 
possible  conveyance,  I would  send  you  a peru- 
sal of  my  book. 


No.  CLIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP,  IN  LONDON, 

Dumfries,  20<A  December,  1795. 

I have  been  prodigiously  disappointed  in  this 
London  journey  of  youis.  In  the  first  place, 
when  your  last  to  me  reached  Dumfries,,  I was 
in  the  country,  and  did  not  return  until  too  late 
to  answer  your  letter ; in  the  next  place,  I 
thought  you  would  certainly  lake  this  route  ; 
and  now  I know  not  what  is  become  of  you, 
or  whether  this  may  reach  you  at  all.  God 
grant  that  it  may  find  you  and  yours  in  prosper- 
ing health, and  good  spirits  ! Do  let  me  hear 
from  you  the  soonest  possible. 

As  I hope  to  get  a frank  from  my  friend  Cap- 
tain Miller,  I shall  every  leisure  hour,  take  up 
the  pen,  and  gossip  away  whatever  comes  first, 
prose  or  poesy,  sermon  or  song.  In  this  last 
article  I have  abounded  of  late.  I have  often 
mentioned  to  you  a superb  publication  of  Scot- 
tish songs  which  is  making  its  appearance  in 
our  great  metropolis,  ana  where  I have  the 
onor  to  preside  over  the  Scottish  verse,  as  no 
less  a personage  than  Peter  Pindar  does  over 
the  English.  1 wrote  the  following  for  a favor- 
ite air.  See  the  song  entitled,  Lord  Gregory , 
Poems,  p.  65. 

•The  Address  is  given  in  p.  63,  of  the  Poems. 


LETTERS. 


December  29th. 

Since  I began  this  letter,  I have  been  appoin- 
ted to  act  in  the  capacity  of  supervisor  here  : 
and  I assure  you.  what  with  the  load  of  busi- 
ness, and  what  with  that  business  being  new  to 
me,  I could  scarcely  have  commanded  ten  min- 
utes to  have  spoken  to  you,  had  you  been  in 
town,  much  less  to  have  written  you  an  epis- 
tle. This  appointment  is  only  temporary,  and 
during  the  illness  of  the  present  incumbent;' 
but  l look  forward  to  an  early  period  when  I | 
shall  be  appointed  in  full  form  ; a consumma- 
tion devoutly  to  be  wished ! My  political  sins 
seem  to  be  forgiven  me. 


This  is  the  season  (New-year’s  day  is  now 
my  date)  of  wishing ; and  mine  are  most  fer- 
vently offered  up  for  you  ! May  life  to  you  be 
a positive  blessing  while  it  lasts,  for  your  own 
sake  ; and  that  it  may  yet  be  greatly  prolonged, 
is  my  wish  for  my  own  sake,  and  for  the  sake 
of  the  rest  of  your  friends  ! What  a transient 
business  is  life  ! Very  lately  I was  a boy  ; but 
t’other  day  I was  a young  man  ; and  I already 
begin  to  feel  the  rigid  fibre  and  stiffening  joints 
of  old  age  coming  fast  o’er  my  frame.  With 
all  my  follies  of  youth,  and  I fear,  a few  vices 
of  manhood,  still  I congratulate  myself  on  hav- 
ing had,  in  early  days,  religion  strongly  im- 
pressed on  my  mind.  I have  nothing  to  say  to 
any  one  as  to  which  sect  he  belongs  to,  or  what 
creed  he  believes ; but  I look  on  the  man, 
who  is  firmly  persuaded  of  infinite  Wisdom 
and  Goodness  superintending  and  directing  ev- 
ery circumstance  that  can  happen  in  his  lot — I 
felicitate  such  a man  as  having  a solid  founda- 
tion for  his  mental  enjoyment ; a firm  prop  and 
sure  stay  in  the  hour  of  difficulty,  trouble,  and 
distress  : and  a never  failing  anchor  of  hope, 
when  he  looks  beyond  the  grave. 

January  12  th. 

You  will  have  seen  our  worthy  and  ingen- 
ious friend  the  Doctor,  long  ere  this.  I hope 
he  is  well,  and  beg  to  be  remembered  to  him. 
I have  just  been  reading  over  again,  I dare  say 
for  the  hundredth  and  fiftieth  time,  his  View  of 
Society  and  Manners;  and  still  Iread  it  with 
delight.  His  humor  is  perfectly  original — it  is 
neither  the  humor  of  Addison,  nor  Swift,  nor 
Sterne,  nor  of  any  body  but  Doctor  Moore.  By 
the  by,  you  have  deprived  me  of  Zeluco  ; re- 
member that,  when  you  are  disposed  to  rake  up 
the  sins  of  my  neglect  from  among  the  ashes  of 
my  laziness. 

He  has  paid  me  a pretty  compliment,  by  quo- 
ting me  in  his  last  publication. * 

* * * * 


No.  CLIV. 

TO  MRS.  R.****. 

20 th  January , 1796. 

I cannot  express  my  gratitude  to  you  for  al- 
lowing me  a longer  perusal  of  Anacharsis.  In 
fact  I never  met  with  a book  that  bewitched  me 
so  much ; and  I,  as  a member  of  the  library, 
* Edward. 


291 

must  warmly  feel  the  obligation  you  have  laid 
us  under.  Indeed  to  me,  the  obligation  is 
stronger  than  to  any  other  individual  of  our  so- 
ciety ; as  Anacharsis  is  an  indispensable  desid- 
eratum to  a son  of  the  Muses. 

The  health  you  wished  me  in  your  morning’s 
card,  is  I think,  flown  from  me  forever.  I have 
not  been  able  to  leave  my  bed  to-day  till  about 
an  hour  ago.  These  wickedly  unlucky  adver- 
tisements 1 lent  (I  did  wrong)  to  a friend,  and  I 
[ am  ill  able  to  go  in  quest  of  hirn. 

The  Muses  have  not  quite  forsaken  me.  The 
following  detached  stanzas  I intend  to  inter- 
weave in  some  disastrous  tdle  of  a shepherd. 

* * * * 


No.  CLV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

3\st.  January , 1796. 

These  many  months  you  have  been*  two 
ackets  in  my  debt — what  sin  of  ignorance  I 
ave  committed  against  so  highly  valued  a 
friend  I am  utterly  at  a loss  to  guess.  Alas! 
Madam  ! ill  can  I afford,  at  this  time,  to  be  de- 
prived of  any  of  the  small  remnant  of  my  pleas- 
ures. I have  lately  drunk  deep  of  the  cup  of 
affliction.  The  autumn  robbed  me  of  my  only 
daughter  and  darling  child,  and  that  at  a dis- 
tance too,  and  so  rapidly,  as  to  put  it  out  of  my 
power  to  pay  the  last  duties  to  her.  I had 
scarcely  begun  to  recover  from  that  shock, 
when  I became  myself  the  victim  of  a most  se- 
vere rheumatic  fever,  and  long  the  die  spun 
doubtful ; until  after  many  weeks  of  a sick  bed, 
it  seems  to  have  turned  up  life,  and  I am  begin- 
ning to  crawl  across  my  room,  and  once  in- 
deed have  been  before  my  own  door  in  the 
street. 

When  pleasure  fascinates  the  mental  sight, 
Affliction  purities  Ihe  visual  ray, 

Religion  hails  the  drear,  the  untried  night, 

And  shuts,  forever  shuts,  life’s  doubtful  day  5 


No.  CLVI. 

TO  MRS.  R * * * * . 

Who  had  desired  him  to  go  to  the  Birth-Day 

Assembly  on  that  day  to  show  his  loyalty. 

4 th  June , 1796. 

I am  in  such  miserable  health  as  to  be  utterly 
incapable  of  showing  my  loyalty  in  any  way. 
Racked  as  I am  with  rheumatisms,  I meet  eve- 
ry face  with  a greeting,  like  that  of  Balak  to 
Balaam — “ Come,  curse  me  Jacob;  and  come, 
defy  me  Israel !”  So  say  I — come  curse  me 
that  east  wind  : and  come,  defy  me  the  north ! 
Would  you  have  me  in  such  circumstances, 
copy  you  out  a love  song  ? 

* * * # 

I may,  perhaps,  see  you  on  Saturday,  but  I 
will  not  be  at  the  ball.  Why  should  I ! “Man 
delights  not  me,  nor  woman  either?”  Can 
you  supply  me  with  the  song,  Let  us  all  be  un- 
happy together — do  if  you  can,  and  oblige  le 
pauvre  miserable , R.  B. 


292 


LETTERS. 


No.  CLVII. 


No.  CLVIII. 


TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow,  Sea-bathing  Quarters,  7th  July,  1796. 

My  Dear  Cunningham, 

I received  yours  here  this  moment,  and  am 
indeed  highly  flattered  with  the  approbation  of 
the  literary  circle  you  mention;  a literary 
circle,  inferior  to  none  in  the  two  kingdoms. 
Alas ! my  friend,  I fear  the  voice  of  the 
bard  will  soon  be  heard  among  you  no 
more?  For  these  eight  or  ten  months  I have 
been  ailing,  sometimes  bedfast,  and  sometimes 
not ; but  these  last  three  months,  I have  been 
tortured  with  an  excruciating  rheumatism, 
which  has  reduced  me  to  nearly  the  last  stage. 
You  actually  would  not  know  me  if  you  saw 
me.  Pale,  emaciated,  and  so  feeble  as  occa- 
sionally to  need  help  from  my  chair ! my  spirits 
fled!  fled! — but  I can  no  more  on  the  subject 
— only  the  medical  folks  tell  me  that  my  last 
and  only  chance  is  bathing,  and  country  quar- 
ters, and  riding.  The  deuce  of  the  matter  is 
this ; when  an  exciseman  is  off  duty,  his 
salary  is  reduced  to  thirty-five  pounds  instead 
of  fifty  pounds.  What  way,  in  the  name  of 
thrift,  shall  I maintain  myself,  and  keep  a horse 
in  country  quarters — with  a wife  and  five  child- 
ren at  home,  on  thirty-five  pounds  ? I mention 
this,  because  I had  intended  to  beg  your  utmost 
interest,  and  that  of  all  the  friends  you  can 
muster,  to  move  our  Commissioners  of  Excise 
to  grant  me  the  full  salary — 1 dare  say  you 
know  them  all  personally.  If  they  do  not  grant 
it  me,  I must  lay  my  account  with  an  exit  truly 
en  poete,  if  I die  not  of  disease,  I must  perish 
with  hunger. 

I have  sent  you  one  of  the  songs  ; the  other 
my  memory  does  not  serve  me  with,  and  I have 
no  copy  here  ; but  I shall  be  at  home  soon, 
when  I will  send  it  to  you.  A-propos  to  being 
at  home,  Mrs.  Burns  threatens  in  a week  or 
two  to  add  one  more  to  my  paternal  charge, 
which,  if  of  the  right  gender,  I intend  shall  be 
introduced  to  the  world  by  the  respectable  des- 
ignation of  Alexander  Cunningham  Burns. 
My  last  was  James  Glencairn,  so  you  can  have 
no  objection  to  the  company  of  nobility.  Fare- 
well ! 


TO  MRS.  BURNS. 


__  _ Brow,  Thursday. 

My  Dearest  Love, 

I delayed  writing  until  I could  tell  you  what 
effect  sea-bathing  was  likely  to  produce.  It 
would  be  injuslice  to  deny  that  it  has  eased  my 
pains,  and  1 think,  has  strengthened  me  ; but 
my  appetite  is  still  extremely  bad.  No  flesh 
nor  fish  can  I swallow  ; porridge  and  milk  are 
the  only  things  I can  taste.  I am  very  happy  to 
hear,  by  Miss  Jess  Lewars,  that  you  are  all 
well.  My  very  best  and  kindest  compliments 
to  her,  and  to  all  the  children.  I will  see  you 
on  Sunday.  Your  affectionate  husband. 

R.  B. 


No.  CLIX. 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


Brow,  12 th  July,  1796. 

Madam, 

I have  written  you  so  often  without  receiving 
any  answer,  that  I would  not  trouble  you  again, 
but  for  the  circumstances  in  which  I am.  An 
illness  which  has  long  hung  about  me,  in  all 
probability  will  speedily  send  me  beyond  that 
bourn  whence  no  traveler  returns.  Your  friend- 
ship, with  which  for  many  years  you  honored 
me,  was  a friendship  dearest  to  my  soul.  Your 
conversation,  and  especially  your  correspon- 
dence, were  at  once  highly  entertaining  and  in- 
structive. With  what  pleasure  did  I use  to 
break  up  the  seal ! The  remembrance  yet 
adds  one  pulse  more  to  my  poor  palpitating 
heart,  Farewell ! ! ! * R.  B. 

* The  above  is  supposed  to  be  the  last  production 
of  Robert  Burns,  who  died  on  the  21st  of  the  month, 
nine  days  afterwards.  He  had,  however,  the  pleas- 
ure of  receiving  a satisfactory  explanation  of  his 
friend’s  silence,  and  an  assurance  of  the  continuance 
of  her  friendship  to  his  widow  and  children ; an 
assurance  that  has  been  amply  fulfilled. 

It  is  probable  that  the  greater  part  of  her  letters 
to  him  were  destroyed  by  our  Bard  about  the  time 
that  this  last  was  written.  He  did  not  foresee  that 
his  own  letters  to  her  were  to  appear  in  print,  nor 
conceive  the  disappointment  that  will  be  felt,  that  a 
few  of  this  excellent  lady’s  have  not  served  to  en- 
rich and  adorn  the  collection.  £. 


CORRESPONDENCE 


WITH 


MR.  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


PREFACE. 


The  remaining  part  of  this  Volume,  consists  principally  of  the  Correspondence  between  Mr. 
Burns  and  Mr.  Thompson,  on  the  subject  of  the  beautiful  Work  projected  and  executed  by  the 
latter,  the  nature  of  which  is  explained  in  the  first  number  of  the  following  series.*  The  under- 
taking of  Mr.  Thomson,  is  one  in  which  the  Public  may  be  congratulated  in  various  points  of 
view  ; not  merely  as  having  collected  the  finest  of  the  Scottish  songs  and  airs  of  past  times,  but 
as  having  given  occasion  to  a number  of  original  songs  of  our  Bard,  which  equal  or  surpass  the 
former  efforts  of  the  pastoral  muses  of  Scotland,  and  which,  if  we  mistake  not,  may  be  safely 
compared  with  the  lyric  poetry  of  any  age  or  country.  The  letters  of  Mr.  Burns  to  Mr.  Thom- 
son include  the  songs  he  presented  to  him,  some  of  which  appear  in  different  stages  of  their  pro- 
gress; and  these  letters  will  be  found  to  exhibit  occasionally  his  notions  of  song-writing,  and  his 
opinions  on  various  subjects  of  taste  and  criticism.  These  opinions,  it  will  be  observed,  were 
called  forth  by  the  observations  of  his  correspondent,  Mr.  Thomson  ; and  without  the  letters  of  this 
gentleman,  those  of  Burns  would  have  been  often  unintelligible.  He  has  therefore  yielded  to  the 
earnest  request  of  the  Trustees  of  the  family  of  the  poet,  to  suffer  them  to  appear  in  their  natu- 
ral order  ; and,  independently  of  the  illustration  they  give  to  the  letters  of  our  Bard,  it  is  not  to 
be  doubted  that  their  intrinsic  merit  will  ensure  them  a reception  from  the  public,  far  beyond 
what  Mr.  Thomson’s  modesty  would  permit  him  to  suppose.  The  whole  of  this  correspondence  was 
arranged  for  the  press  by  Mr.  Thomson,  and  has  been  printed  with  little  addition  or  variation. 

To  avoid  increasing  the  bulk  of  the  work  unnecessarily,  we  have  in  general  referred  the  rea- 
der for  the  Song  to  the  page  in  the  Poems  where  it  occurs ; and  have  given  the  verses  entire, 
only  when  they  differ  in  some  respects  from  the  adopted  set. 

* This  work  is  entitled,  “ A Select  Collection  of  original  Scottish  Airs  for  the  Voice  : to  which  are  added 
Introductory  and  concluding  Symphonies  and  Accompaniments  for  the  Piano  Forte  and  Violin,  by  Pleyel 
and  zeluch  : with  select  and  characteristic  Verses,  by  the  most  admired  Scottish  Poets,”  &c. 

293 


294 


LETTERS. 


No.  I. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  September,  1792. 

Sir, 

For  some  years  past,  I have  with  a friend  or 
two,  employed  many  leisure  hours  in  selecting 
and  collating  the  most  favorite  of  our  national 
melodies  lor  publication.  We  have  engaged 
Pleyel,  the  most  agreeable  composer  living,  to 
put  accompaniments  to  these,  and  also  to  com- 
pose an  instrumental  prelude  and  conclusion  to 
each  air,  the  better  to  fit  them  for  concerts,  both 
’public  and  private.  To  render  this  work  per- 
fect, we  are  desirous  to  have  the  poetry  impro- 
ved, wherever  it  seems  unworthy  of  the  music, 
and  that  it  is  so  in  many  instances,  is  allowed 
by  every  one  conversant  with  our  musical  col- 
lections. The  editors  of  these  seem  in  general 
to  have  depended  on  the  music  proving  an  ex- 
cuse for  the  verses  : and  hence,  some  charming 
melodies  are  united  to  mere  nonsense  and  dog- 
gerel, while  others  are  accommodated  with 
rhymes  so  loose  and  indelicate,  as  cannot  be 
sung  in  decent  company.  To  remove  this  re- 
proach would  be  an  easy  task  to  the  author  of 
The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  ; and,  for  the  hon- 
or of  Caledonia,  I would  fain  hope  he  may  be 
induced  to  take  up  the  pen.  If  so,  we  shall  be 
enabled  to  present  the  public  with  a collection 
infinitely  more  interesting  than  any  that  has  as 
yet  appeared,  and  acceptable  to  all  persons  of 
taste,  whether  they  wish  for  correct  melodies, 
delicate  accompaniments,  or  characteristic  ver- 
ses. We  will  esteem  your  poetical  assistance  a 
particular  favor,  besides  paying  any  reasonable 
price  you  shall  please  to  demand  for  it.  Profit 
is  quite  a secondary  consideration  with  us,  and 
we  are  resolved  to  spare  neither  pains  nor  ex- 
pense on  the  publication.  Tell  me  frankly, 
then,  whether  you  will  devote  your  leisure  to 
writing  twenty  or  twenty-five  songs,  suited  to 
the  particular  melodies  which  I am  prepared  to 
send  you.  A few  songs,  exceptionable  only  in 
some  of  their  verses,  I will  likewise  submit  to 
your  consideration ; leaving  it  to  you,  either  to 
mend  these,  or  make  new  songs,  in  their  stead. 
It  is  superfluous  to  assure  you  that  I have  no 
intention  to  displace  any  of  the  sterling  old 
song3;  those  only  will  be  removed,  which  ap- 
pear quite  silly,  or  absolutely  indecent.  Even 
these  shall  all  be  examined  by  Mr.  Burns,  and 
if  he  is  of  the  opinion  that  any  of  them  are  de- 
serving of  music,  in  such  cases  no  divorce  shall 
take  place. 

Relying  on  the  letter  accompanying  this,  to 
be  forgiven  for  the  liberty  I have  taken  in  ad- 
dressing you,  I am,  with  great  esteem,  Sir,  your 
most  obedient  humble  servant, 

G.  THOMSON. 


No.  II. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Dumfries,  1 6th  September,  1792. 

Sir, 

I have  just  this  moment  got  your  letter.  As 
the  request  you  make  to  me  will  positively  add 


to  my  enjoyments  in  complying  with  it,  I shall 
enter  into  your  undertaking  with  all  the  small 
portion  of  abilities  I have,  strained  to  their  ut- 
most exertion  by  the  impulse  of  enthusiasm. 
Only  don’t  hurry  me  : Deil  tak  the  hindmost,” 
is  by  no  means  the  cri  de  guerre  of  my  muse. 
Will  you,  as  I am  inferior  to  none  of  you  in  en- 
thusiastic attachment  to  the  poetry  and  music  of 
old  Caledonia,  and,  since  you  request  it,  have 
cheerfully  promised  my  mite  of  assistance — 
will  you  let  me  have  a list  of  your  airs,  with  the 
first  line  of  the  printed  verses  you  intend  for 
them,  that  I may  have  an  opportunity  of  sug- 
gesting any  alteration  that  may  occur  to  me. 
You  know  ’tis  in  the  way  of  my  trade;  still 
leaving  you,  gentlemen,  the  undoubted  right  of 
publishers,  to  approve  or  reject,  at  your  pleas- 
ure, for  your  own  publication.  A-propos  ! if 
you  are  for  English  verses,  there  is,  on  my 
part,  an  end  of  the  matter.  Whether  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  ballad,  or  the  pathos  of  the  song, 
I can  only  hope  to  please  myself  in  being  allow- 
ed at  least  a sprinkling  of  our  native  tongue. 
English  verses,  particularly  the  works  of  Scots- 
men, that  have  merit,  are  certainly  very  eligible. 
Tweedside — Ah.  the  poor  shepherd's  mournful 
fate — Ah,  Chloris  could  1 now  but  sit,  fyc.,  you 
cannot  mend  ; but  such  insipid  stuff  as.  To  Fan- 
ny fair  could  I impart,  &c.,  usually  set  to 
The  Mill  Mill  0,  is  a disgrace  to  the  collection 
in  which  it  has  already  appeared,  and  would 
doubly  disgrace  a collection  that  will  have  the 
very  superior  merit  of  yours.  But  more  of  this 
in  the  farther  prosecution  of  the  business,  if  T 
am  called  on  for  my  strictures  and  amendments 
— I say,  amendments : for  I will  not  alter 
except  where  I myself  at  least  think  that  I 
amend. 

As  to  any  remuneration,  you  may  think  my 
songs  either  above  or  below  price  ; for  they 
shall  absolutely  be  the  one  or  the  other.  In  the 
honest  enthusiasm  with  which  I embark  in  your 
undertaking,  to  talk  of  money,  wages,  fee,  hire, 
&c.,  would  be  downright  prostitution  of  soul  ! 
A proof  of  each  of  the  songs  that  I compose  or 
amend,  I shall  receive  as  a favor.  In  the  rustic 
phrase  of  the  season,  “ Gude  speed  the  wark  !’* 
I am,  Sir,  your  very  humble  servant, 

R.  BURNS. 

P.  S.  1 have  some  particular  reasons  for 
wishing  my  interference  to  be  known  as  little 
as  possible. 


No.  III. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS 

Edinburgh,  13 th  October,  1792. 

Dear  Sir, 

I received,  with  much  satisfaction,  your  pleas- 
ant and  obliging  letter,  and  I return  my  warm- 
est acknowledgments  for  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  you  have  entered  into  our  undertaking. 
We  have  no  doubt  of  being  able  to  produce  a 
collection  highly  deserving  of  public  attention  in 
all  respects. 

1 agree  with  you  in  thinking  English  verses 
that  have  merit,  very  eligible,  wherever  new 
verses  are  necessary  ; because  the  English  be- 
comes every  yea'-  more  and  more  the  language 


LETTERS 


295 


of  Scotland  ; but  if  you  mean  that  no  English 
verses,  except  those  by  Scottish  authors,  ought 
to  be  admitted,  I am  half  inclined  to  differ  from 
you.  1 should  consider  it  unpardonable  to  sac- 
rifice one  good  song  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  to 
make  room  for  English  verses ; but  if  we  can 
select  a few  excellent  ones  suited  to  the  un- 
provided or  ill-provided  airs,  would  it  not  be  the 
very  bigotry  of  literary  patriotism  to  reject 
such,  merely  because  the  authors  were  born 
south  of  the  Tweed  ? Our  sweet  air  My  Nan- 
nie O,  which  in  the  collections  is  joined  to  the 
poorest  stuff  that  Allan  Ramsay  ever  wrote,  be- 
ginning, While  some  for  pleasure  pawn  their 
health,  answers  so  finely  to  Dr.  Percy’s  beauti- 
ful song,  0,  Nancy  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  that 
one  would  think  lie  wrote  it  on  purpose  for  the 
air.  However,  it  is  not  at  all  our  wish  to  con- 
fine you  to  English  verses  ; you  shall  freely  be 
allowed  a sprinkling  of  your  native  tongue,  as 
you  elegantly  express  it : and  moreover,  we 
will  patiently  wait  your  own  time.  One  thing 
only  I beg,  which  is,  that  however  gay  and 
sportive  the  muse  may  be,  she  may  always  be 
decent.  Let  her  not  write  what  beauty  would 
blush  to  speak,  nor  wound  that  charming  delica- 
cy which  forms  the  most  precious  dowry  of  our 
daughters.  1 do  not  conceive  the  song  to  be 
the  most  proper  vehicle  for  witty  and  brilliant 
conceits;  simplicity,  I beiieve,  should  be  its 
prominent  feature  ; but,  in  some  of  our  songs, 
the  writers  have  confounded  simplicity  with 
coarseness  and  vulgarity ; although  between 
the  one  and  the  other,  as  Doctor  Beattie  well 
observes,  there  is  as  great  a difference  as  be- 
tween a plain  suit  of  clothes  and  a bundle  of 
rags.  The  humorous  ballad,  or  pathetic  com- 
plaint, is  best  suited  to  our  artless  melodies  ; 
and  more  interesting,  indeed,  in  all  songs,  than 
the  most  pointed  wit,  dazzling  descriptions  and 
flowery  fancies. 

With  these  trite  observations,  I send  you 
eleven  of  the  songs,  for  which  it  is  my  wish  to 
substitute  others  of  your  writing.  I shall  soon 
transmit  the  rest,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a pro- 
spectus of  the  whole  collection:  and  you  may 
believe  we  will  receive  any  hints  that  you  are 
so  kind  as  to  give  for  improving  the  work,  with 
the  greatest  pleasure  and  thankfulness. 

I remain,  dear  Sir,  &c. 


No.  IV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 
My  Dear  Sir, 

Let  me  tell  you,  that  you  are  too  fastidious  in 
your  ideas  of  songs  and  ballads.  I own  that 
your  criticisms  are  just;  the  songs  you  specify 
in  your  list  ha ve  all,  hut  one,  the  faults  you  re- 
mark in  them  ; but  who  shall  mend  the  matter? 
Who  shall  rise  up  and  say — Go  to,  I will  make 
a better?  For  instance,  on  reading  over  the 
Lea-rig,  T immediately  set  about  trying  my 
hand  on  it,  and.  after  all,  I could  make  noth- 
ing more  of  it  than  the  following,  which  Heav- 
en knows  is  poor  enough  : 

When  o’er  the  hill  the  eastern  star, 

Tells  bughtin  time  is  near  my  jo  ; 

And  owsen  frae  the  furrow’d  field, 

Return  sae  dowf  and  weary  O ; 


Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks* 

Wi’devv  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo, 

I’ll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 

I’d  rove,  and  ne’er  be  eerie  O, 

If  thro’  that  glen  I gaed  to  thee. 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

Altlio’  the  night  were  ne’er  sae  wild,  f 
And  I were  ne’er  sae  wearie  O, 

I’d  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

Your  observalion  as  to  the  aptitude  of  Dr. 
Percy's  ballad  to  the  air  Nannie  0.  is  just.  It 
is  besides,  perhaps,  the  most  beautiful  ballad  in 
the  English  language.  But  let  me  remark  to 
you,  that,  in  the  sentiment  and  style  of  our 
Scottish  airs,  there  is  a pastoral  simplicity,  a 
something  that  one  may  call  the  Doric  stylo 
and  dialect  of  vocal  music,  to  which  a dash  of 
our  native  tongue  and  manners  is  particularly, 
nay  peculiarly  apposite.  For  this  reason,  and, 
upon  my  honor,  for  this  reason  alone,  I am  of 
opinion  (but,  as  I told  you  before,  my  opinion 
is  yours,  freely  yours,  to  approve,  or  reject,  as 
you  please)  that  my  ballad  of  Nannie  0,  might 
perhaps,  do  for  one  set  of  verses  to  the  tune. 
Now  don’t  let  it  enter  into  your  head,  that  you 
are  under  any  necessity  of  taking  my  verses.  I 
have  long  ago  made  up  my  mind  as  to  my  own 
reputation  in  the  business  of  authorship;  and 
have  nothing  to  be  pleased  or  offended  at,  in 
your  adoption  or  rejection  of  my  verses.  Tho* 
you  should  reject  one  half  of  what  I give  you, 
I shall  be  pleased  with  your  adopting  the  other 
half,  and  shall  continue  to  serve  you  with  tho 
same  assiduity. 

In  the  printed  copy  of  my  Nannie  0,  the 
name  of  the  river  is  horridly  prosaic.  I will 
alter  it, 

“ Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows.’ 

Girvan  is  the  name  of  the  river  that  suits  the 
idea  of  the  stanza  best,  but  Lugar  is  the  most 
agreeable  modulation  of  syllables. 

I will  soon  give  you  a great  many  more  re- 
marks on  this  business  ; but  I have  just  now 
an  opportunity  of  conveying  you  this  scrawl, 
free  of  postage,  an  expense  that  it  is  ill  able  to 
pay:  so,  wiih  my  best  compliments  to  honest 
Allan.  Good  be  wi’  ye,  &c. 

Friday  night. 

* For  “scented  birks,”  in  some  copies,  “birken 
buds.”  E. 

fin  the  copy  transmitted  to  Mr.  Thomson,  in- 
stead of  wild,  was  inserted  wet.  But  in  one  of  the 
manuscripts,  probably  written  afterwards,  wet  waa 
changed  into  wild  ; evidently  a great  improvement. 
The  lovers  might  meet  on  the  lea-rig.  “ although  the 
night  were  ne’er  so  wild”  that  is,  alibough  the  sum- 
mer-wind blew,  ihe  sky  lowered,  and  the  thunder 
murmured  ; such  circumstances  might  render  their 
meeting  still  more  interesting.  But  if  the  night  were 
wet,  why  should  they  meet  on  the  lea-rig  I On  a 
wet  night  the  imagination  cannot  contemplate  their 
situation  there  wiih  any  complacency.  Tibullus, 
and  after  him.  Hammond,  has  conceived  a happier 
situation  for  lovers  on  a wet  night.  Probably  Burns 
had  in  his  mind  the  verse’of  an  old  Scottish  Song, 
in  which  wet  and  weary  are  naturally  enough  con- 
joined. 

“ When  tny-  ploughman  comes  hame  at  ev’n 
He’s  often  wet  and  weary  ; 

Cast  oflf  the  wet,  put  on  the  dry, 

And  gae  to  bed  my  deary.” 


296 


LETTERS. 


Saturday  morning. 

As  I find  I have  still  an  hour  to  spare  this 
morning  before  my  conveyance  goes  away,  I 
will  give  you  Nannie  0,  at  length.  See  Poems , 
p.  41. 

Your  remarks  on  Ewe-bughts,  Marion , are 
just:  still  it  has  obtained  a place  among  our 
more  classical  Scottish  songs ; and  what  with 
many  beauties  in  its  composition,  and  more  pre- 
judices in  its  favor,  you  will  not  find  it  easy  to 
supplant  it. 

In  my  very  early  years,  when  I was  think- 
ing of  going  to  the  West  Indies,  I took  the  fol- 
lowing farewell  of  a dear  girl.  It  is  quite  tri- 
fling, and  has  nothing  of  the  merits  of  Ewe- 
bughts  : but  it  will  fill  up  this  page.  You 
must  know,  that  all  my  earlier  love-songs  were 
the  breathings  of  ardent  passion  : and  though  it 
might  have  been  easy  in  after-times  to  have 
given  them  a polish,  yet  that  polish,  to  me, 
whose  they  were,  and  who  perhaps  alone  cared 
for  them,  would  have  defaced  the  legend  of  my 
heart,  which  was  so  faithfully  inscribed  on 
them.  Their  uncouth  simplicity  was,  as  they 
say  of  wines,  their  race. 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

And  leave  auld  Scotia’s  shore  ? 

See  Poems , p.  63. 

Galla  Water , and  Auld  Bob  Morris.  I think, 
will  most  probably  be  the  next  subject  of  my 
musings.  However,  even  on  my  verses,  speak 
out  your  criticisms  with  equal  frankness.  My 
wish  is,  not  to  stand  aloof,  the  uncomplying  bi- 
got of  opmialrete,  but  cordially  to  join  issue 
with  you  in  the  furtherance  of  the  work. 


No.  V. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

November  8th,  1792. 

If  you  mean,  my  dear  Sir,  that  all  the  songs 
in  your  collection  shall  be  poetry  of  the  first 
merit,  I am  afraid  you  will  find  more  difficulty 
in  the  undertaking  than  you  are  aware  of. 
There  is  a peculiar  rhythmus  in  many  of  our 
airs,  and  a necessity  of  adapting  syllables  to  the 
emphasis.,  or  what  I would  call  the  feature  notes 
of  the  tune,  that  cramp  the  poet,  and  lay 'him 
under  almost  insuperable  difficulties.  For  in- 
stance, in  the  air,  My  wife's  a wanton  wee 
thing , if  a few  lines,  smooth  and  pretty,  can  be 
adapted  to  it,  it  is  all  you  can  expect.  The  fol- 
lowing were  made  extempore  to  it,  and  though, 
on  further  study,  I might  give  you  something 
more  profound,  yet  it  might  not  suit  the  light- 
horse  gallop  of  the  air  so  well  as  this  random 
clink — 

MY  WIFE’S  A WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

She  is  a winsome  wee  thing, 

She  is  a handsome  wee  thing. 

See  Poems,  p.  64. 

1 have  just  been  looking  over  the  Collier's 
Bonnie  Dochter  ; and  if  the  following  rhapsody, 
which  I composed  the  other  day,  on  a charming 

Ayrshire  girl,  Miss , as  she  passed  through 

this  place  to  England,  will  suit  your  taste  better 
than  the  Collier  Lassie,  fall  on  and  welcome. 


O saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 
As  she  gaed  o’er  the  border  ? 

See  Poems,  p.  64. 

I have  hitherto  deferred  the  sublimer,  more 
pathetic  airs,  until  more  leisure,  as  they  will 
take,  and  deserve,  a greater  effort.  However, 
they  are  all  put  into  your  hands,  as  clay  into 
the  hands  of  the  potter,  to  make  one  vessel  to 
honor,  and  another  to  dishonor.  Farewell,  &c. 


No.  VI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Inclosing  the  Song  on  Highland  Mary. 

See  Poems,  p.  64. 

14 th  November,  1792. 

My  Dear  Sir, — 

I agree  with  you  that  the  son g Katharine 
Ogie,  is  very  poor  stuff,  and  unworthy,  alto- 
gether unworthy,  of  so  beautiful  an  air.  I tried 
to  mend  it,  but  the  awkward  sound,  Ogie,  re- 
curring so  often  in  the  rhyme,  spoils  every  at- 
tempt at  introducing  sentiment  into  the  piece. 
The  foregoing  song  pleases  myself ; I think  it 
is  in  my  happiest  manner;  you  will  see  at  first 
glance  that  it  suits  the  air.  The  subject  of  th© 
song  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  passages  of 
my  youthful  days;  and  I own  that  I should  b© 
much  flattered  to  see  the  verses  set  to  an  air, 
which  would  ensure  celebrity.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  ’tis  the  still  glowing  prejudice  of  my  heart, 
that  throws  a borrowed  lustre  over  the  merits 
of  the  composition. 

I have  partly  taken  your  idea  of  Auld  Rob 
Morris.  I have  adopted  the  two  first  verses, 
and  am  going  on  with  the  song  on  a new  plan, 
which  promises  pretty  well.  I take  up  one  or 
another,  just  as  the  bee  of  the  moment  buzzes 
in  my  bonnet-lug ; and  do  you,  sans  ceremonit, 
make  what  use  you  choose  of  the  productions. 
Adieu  ! &c. 


No.  VII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  November,  1792. 

Dear  Sir, 

I was  just  going  to  write  to  you  that  on  meet- 
ing with  your  Nannie , I had  fallen  violently  in 
love  with  her.  1 thank  you,  therefore,  forsend- 
ing  the  charming  rustic  to  me,  in  the  dress  you 
wish  her  to  appear  before  the  public.  She  does 
you  great  credit,  and  will  soon  be  admitted  into 
the  best  company. 

I regret  that  your  song  for  the  Lea-rig  is  so 
short;  the  air  is  easy,  soon  sung,  ana  very 
pleasing;  so  that,  if  the  singer  stops  at  the  end 
of  two  stanzas,  it  is  a pleasure  lost  ere  it  is  well 
possessed. 

Although  a dash  of  our  native  tongue  and 
manners  is  doubtless  peculiarly  congenial  and 
appropriate  to  our  melodies,  yet  I shall  be  able 
to  present  a considerable  number  of  the  very 
Flowers  of  English  Song,  well  adapted  to  those 
melodies,  which,  in  England  at  least,  will  be 
the  means  of  recommending  them  to  still 
greater  attention  than  they  have  procured  there. 
But  you  will  observe,  my  plan  is,  that  every 
air  shall,  in  the  first  place,  have  verses  wholly 


LETTERS. 


297 


by  Scottish  poets : and  that  those  of  English 
writers  shall  follow  as  additional  songs,  for  the 
choice  of  the  singer. 

What  you  say  of  the  Ewe-bughls  is  just;  I 
admire  it,  and  never  meant  to  supplant  it.  All 
I requested  was,  that  you  would  try  your  hand 
on  some  of  the  inferior  stanzas,  which  are  ap- 
parently no  part  of  the  original  song  : but  this  I 
do  not  urge,  because  the  song  is  of  sufficient 
length  though  those  inferior  stanzas  be  omitted, 
as  they  will  be  by  the  singer  of  taste.  You 
must  not  think  that  I expect  all  the  songs  to  be 
of  superlative  merit ; that  were  an  unreasonable 
expectation.  1 am  sensible,  that  no  poet  can 
sit  down  doggedly  to  pen  verses,  and  succeed 
well  at  all  times. 

I am  highly  pleased  with  your  humorous  and 
amorous  rhapsody  on  Bonnie  Leslie;  it  is  a 
thousand  times  better  than  the  Collier's  Lassie. 
“ The  deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee,”  &c.,  is  an 
eccentric  and  happy  thought.  Do  you  not 
think,  however,  that  the  names  of  such  old  he- 
roes as  Alexander,  sound  rather  queer,  unless 
in  pompous  or  mere  burlesque  verse  ? Instead 
of  the  line,  “Arid  never  made  another,”  I 
would  humbly  suggest,  “ And  ne’er  made  sic 
anither;”  and  I would  fain  have  you  substitute 
some  other  line,  for  “ Return  to  Caledonia,”  in 
the  last  verse,  because  I think  this  alteration  of 
the  orthography,  and  of  the  sound  of  Caledonia, 
disfigures  the  word,  and  renders  it  Hudibrastic. 

Of  the  other  song.  My  wife's  a winsome  wee 
thing,  l think  the  first  eight  lines  very  good  ; 
but  I do  not  admire  the  other  eight,  because 
four  of  them  are  a bare  repetition  of  the  first 
verse.  1 have  been  trying  to  spin  a stanza,  but 
could  make  nothing  better  than  the  following : 
Do  you  mend  it,  or,  as  Yorick  did  with  the 
love-letter,  whip  it  up  in  your  own  way. 

0 leeze  me  on  my  wee  thing  ; 

My  bonnie  blylhsome  wee  thing  ; 

Sae  lang’s  I hae  my  wee  thing, 

1 11  think  my  lot  divine. 

Tho’  warld’s  care  we  share  o’t, 

And  may  see  meickle  rnairo’t ; 

Wi’  her  I’ll  blithely  bear  it, 

And  ne’er  a word  repine. 

You  perceive,  my  dear  Sir,  I avail  myself  of 
the  liberty  which  you  condescend  to  allow  me, 
by  speaking  freely  what  I think.  Be  assured 
it  is  not  my  disposition  to  pick  out  the  faults  of 
any  poem  or  picture  I see : my  first  and  chief 
object  is  to  discover  and  be  delighted  with  the 
beauties  of  the  piece.  If  I sit  down  to  examine 
critically,  and  at  leisure,  what  perhaps  you  have 
written  in  haste, T may  happen  to  observe  care- 
less lines,  the  reperusal  of  which  might  lead 
you  to  improve  them.  The  wren  will  often  see 
what  has  been  overlooked  by  the  eagle.  I re- 
main yours  faithfully,  dec. 

P.  S.  Your  verses  upon  Highland  Mary  are 
just  come  to  hand  : they  breathe  the  genuine 
spirit  of  poetry,  and,  like  the  music,  will  last 
for  ever.  Such  verses  united  to  such  an  air, 
with  the  delicate  harmony  of  Pleyel  superadd- 
ed,  might  form  a treat  worthy  of  being  presented 
to  Apollo  himself.  I have  heard  the  sad  story 
of  your  Mary : you  always  seem  inspired  when 
you  write  of  her. 


No.  VIII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Dumfries , lsf  December,  1792. 

Your  alterations  of  my  Nannie  0,  are  per- 
fectly right.  So  are  those  of  My  wife's  a wan- 
ton wee  thing.  Your  alteration  of  the  second 
stanza  is  a positive  improvement.  Now,  my 
dear  Sir,  with  the  freedom  which  characterizes 
our  correspondence,  I must  not,  cannot,  alter 
Bonnie  Leslie.  You  are  right,  the  word,  “Al- 
exander,” makes  the  line  a little  uncouth,  but 
I think  the  thought  is  pretty.  Of  Alexander, 
beyond  all  other  heroes,  it  may  be  said,  in  the 
sublime  language  of  scripture,  that  “he  went 
forth  conquering  and  to  conquer.” 

“ For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 

And  never  made  anither.”  (Such  a person  as  she  is.) 

This  is,  in  my  opinion,  more  poetical  than 
“ Ne’er  made  sic  anither.”  However,  it  is 
immaterial;  make  it  either  way.*  “ Cale- 
donie,”  I agree  with  you  is  not  so  good  a word 
as  could  be  wished,  though  it  is  sanctioned  in 
three  or  four  instances  by  Allan  Ramsay  : but 
I cannot  help  it.  In  short,  that  species  of  stan- 
za is  the  most  difficult  that  I have  ever  tried. 

The  I.ea-rig  is  as  follows.  ( Here  the  poet 
gives  the  two  first  stanzas  as  before,  p.  295,  with 
the  following  in  addition.) 

The  hunter  lo’es  the  morning  sun, 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo: 

At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen. 

Along  the  burn  to  steer,  my  jo  : 

Gie  me  the  hour  o’  gloamin  gray. 

It  inaks  my  heart  sae  cheery  O, 

To  meet  thee  oil  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

1 am  interrupted. 

Yours,  &c. 


No.  IX. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Inclosing  Auld  Rob  Morris,  and  Duncan  Gray. 
See  Poems,  p.  64. 

4 th  December,  1792. 

The  foregoing  ( Auld  Rob  Morris  and  Dun- 
can Gray,)  I submit,  my  dear  Sir,  to  your  bet- 
ter judgment.  Acquit  them,  or  condemn  them, 
as  seemeth  good  in  your  sight.  Duncan  Gray 
is  that  kind  of  light-horse  gallop  of  an  air. 
which  precludes  sentiment.  The  ludicrous  is 
its  ruling  feature. 


No.  X. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

With  Poortith  Cauld  and  Galla  Water.  See 
Poems,  p.  65. 

January,  1793. 

Many  returns  of  the  season  to  you,  my  dear 
Sir.  How  comes  on  your  publication?  will 
these  two  foregoing  be  of  any  service  to  you  ? 
I should  like  to  know  what  songs  you  print  to 

* Mr.  Thomson  has  decided  on  J Ve'er  wade  sic 
anither.  E. 


298 


LETTERS. 


each  tune  besides  the  verses  to  which  it  is  set. 
In  short,  1 would  wish  to  give  you  my  opinion 
on  all  the  poetry  you  publish.  You  know  it.  is 
my  trade,  and  a man  in  the  way  ot'  his  trade, 
may  suggest  useful  hints,  that  escape  men  of 
superior  parts  and  endowments  in  other  things. 

If  you  meet  with  my  dear  and  much-valued 
C.,  greet  him  in  my  name,  with  the  compli- 
ments of  the  season.  Yours,  &c. 


No.  XI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  January  20,  1793. 
You  make  me  happy,  my  dear  Sir,  and 
thousands  will  be  happy  to  see  the  charming 
songs  you  have  sent  me.  Many  merry  returns 
of  the  season  to  you,  and  may  you  long  con- 
tinue, among  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Cale- 
donia, to  delight,  them,  and  to  honor  yourself. 

The  four  last  songs  with  which  you  favored 
me,  viz.  Auld  Rob  Morris,  Duncan  Gray.  Gal - 
la  Water,  and  Cauld  Kail,  are  admirable. 
Duncan  is  indeed  a lad  of  grace,  and  his  humor 
will  endear  him  to  everybody. 

The  distracted  lover  in  Auld  Rob,  and  the 
happy  Shepherdess  in  Galla  Water,  exhibit  an 
excellent  contrast:  they  speak  from  genuine 
feeling,  and  powerfully  touch  the  heart. 

The  number  of  songs  which  I had  originally 
in  view  was  limited  ; but  I now  resolve  to  in- 
clude every  Scotch  air  and  song  worth  singing, 
leaving  none  behind  but  mere  gleanings,  to 
which  the  publishers  of  omnegatherum  are  wel- 
come. I would  rather  be  the  editor  of  a collec- 
tion from  which  nothing  could  be  taken  away, 
than  of  one  to  which  nothing  could  be  added. 
We  intend  presenting  the  subscribers  with  two 
beautiful  stroke  engravings ; the  one  character- 
istic of  the  plaintive,  and  the  other  of  the  lively 
songs;  and  I have  Dr.  Beattie’s  promise  of  an 
essay  upon  the  subject  of  our  national  music, 
if  his  heabh  will  permit  him  to  write  it.  As  a 
number  of  our  songs  have  doubtless  been  called 
forth  by  particular  events,  or  by  the  charms  of 
peerless  damsels,  there  must  be  many  curious 
anecdotes  relating  to  them. 

The  late  Mr.  Tytler,  of  Woodhouselee,  I be- 
lieve. knew  more  of  this  than  any  body ; for 
he  joined  to  the  pursuits  of  an  antiquary,  a taste 
for  poetry,  besides  being  a man  of  the  world, 
and  possessing  an  enthusiasm  for  music  beyond 
most  of  his  contemporaries.  He  was  quite 
leased  with  this  plan  of  mine,  for  I may  say  it 
as  been  solely  managed  by  me,  and  we  had 
several  long  conversations  about  it  when  it  was 
in  embryo.  If  I could  simply  mention  the 
name  of  the  heroine  of  each  song,  and  the  inci- 
dent which  occasioned  the  verses,  it  would  be 
gratifying.  Pray,  will  you  send  me  any  infor- 
mation of  this  sort,  as  well  with  regard  to  your 
own  songs  as  the  old  ones  ? 

To  all  the  favorite  songs  of  the  plaintive  or 
pastoral  kind,  will  be  joined  the  delicate  accom- 
paniments. &c.,  of  Pleyel.  To  those  of  the 
comic  and  humorous  class,  I think  accompani- 
ments scarcely  necessary  ; they  are  chiefly  fitted 
for  the  conviviality  of  the  festive  board,  and  a 
tuneful  voice,  with  a proper  delivery  of  the 
words,  renders  them  perfect.  Nevertheless,  to 


these  I propose  adding  bass  accompaniments, 
because  then  they  are  fitted  either  for  singing, 
or  for  instrumental  performance,  when  there 
happens  to  be  no  singer.  I mean  to  employ 
our  right  trusty  friend,  Mr.  Clarke,  to  set  the 
bass  to  these,  which  he  assures  me  he  will  do 
con  amore,  and  with  much  greater  attention 
than  he  ever  bestowed  on  any  thing  of  the  kind. 
But  for  this  last  class  of  airs,  I will  not  attempt 
to  find  more  than  one  set  of  verses. 

That  eccentric  bard,  Peter  Pindar,  has  start- 
ed I know  not  how  many  difficulties,  about 
writing  for- the  airs  I sent  to  him,  because  of  the 
peculiarity  of  their  measure,  and  the  trammels 
they  impose  on  -his  flying  Pegasus.  I subjoin 
for  your  perusal  the  only  one  I have  yet  got 
from  him,  being  for  the  fine  air  “ Lord  Grego- 
ry.” The  Scots  verses  printed  with  that  air, 
are  taken  from  the  middle  of  an  old  ballad,  call- 
ed The  Lass  of  Lochro  an,  which  I do  not  ad- 
mire, I have  set  down  the  air,  therefore,  as  a 
creditor  of  yours.  Many  of  the  Jacobite  songs 
are  replete  with  wit  and  humor:  might  not  the 
best  of  these  be  included  in  our  volume  of  co- 
mic songs  ? 

POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM  THE  HON.  A.ERSKINE. 

Mr.  Thomson  has  been  so  obliging  as  to  give 
me  a perusal  of  your  songs.  Highland  Mary  is 
most  enchantingly  pathetic,  and  Duncan  Gray 
possesses  native  genuine  humor ; “ spak  o’  low- 
pin  o’er  a linn,”  is  a line  of  itself  that  should 
make  you  immortal.  I sometimes  hear  of  you 
from  our  mutual  friend  C.,  who  is  a most  excel- 
lent fellow,  and  possesses,  above  all  men  I 
know,  the  charm  of  a most  obliging  disposition. 
You  kindly  promised  me,  about  a year  ago,  a 
collection  of  your  unpublished  productions,  re- 
ligious and  amorous : I know  from  experience 
how  irksome  it  is  to  copy.  If  you  will  get  any 
trusty  person  in  Dumfries  to  write  them  over 
fair,  I will  give  Peter  Hill  whatever  money  he 
asks  for  his  trouble,  and  I certainly  shall  not 
betray  your  confidence. — I am  vour  hearty  ad- 
mirer, ANDREW  ERSKINE. 


No.  XII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON 

26/A  January,  1793. 

I approve  greatly,  my  dear  Sir,  of  your 
plans;  Dr.  Beattie’s  essay  will  of  itself  be  a 
treasure.  On  my  part,  I mean  to  draw  up  an 
appendix  to  the  Doctor’s  essay,  containing  my 
stock  of  anecdotes,  &c.,  of  our  Scots  songs. 
All  the  late  Mr.  Tytler’s  anecdotes  I have  by 
me,  taken  down  in  the  course  of  my  acquaint- 
ance with  him  from  hisown  mouth.  I am  such 
an  enthusiast,  that,  in  the  course  of  my  several 
peregrinations  through  Scotland,  I made  a pil- 
grimage to  the  individual  spot  from  which 
every  song  took  its  rise ; Lochaber  and  the 
Braes  of  Ballenden,  excepted.  So  far  as  the 
locality,  either  from  the  title  of  the  air  or  the 
tenor  of  the  song,  could  be  ascertained,  I have 
paid  my  devotions  at  the  particular  shrine  of 
every  Scots  muse. 


LETTERS 


299 


I do  not  doubt  but  you  might  make  a very 
valuable  collection  of  Jacobite  songs;  but 
would  it  give  no  offence  ? In  the  mean  time, 
do  not  you  think  that  some  of  them,  particularly 
The  sow's  tail  to  Geordie,  as  an  air,  with  other 
words,  might  be  well  worth  a place  in  your  col- 
lection of  lively  songs  ? 

If  it  were  possible  to  procure  songs  of  merit, 
it  would  be  proper  to  have  one  set  of  Scots 
words  to  every  air,  and  that  the  set  of  words  to 
which  the  notes  ought  to  be  set.  There  is  a 
naivete,  a pastoral  simplicity  in  a slight  inter- 
mixture of  Scots  words  and  phraseology,  which 
is  more  in  unison  (at  least  to  my  taste,  and  I 
will  add  to  every  genuine  Caledonian  taste) 
with  the  simple  pathos,  or  rustic  sprightliness  of 
our  native  music,  than  any  English  verses 
whatever. 

The  very  name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  an  acquisi- 
tion to  your  work.  His  Gregory  is  beautiful. 
I have  tried  to  give  you  a set  of  stanzas  in  Scots, 
on  the  same  subject,  which  are  at  your  service. 
Not  that  I intend  to  enter  the  lists  with  Peter  ; 
that  would  be  presumption  indeed.  My  song, 
though  much  inferior  in  poetic  merit,  has  I 
think  more  of  the  ballad  simplicity  about  it.* 

My  most  respectful  compliments  to  the  hon- 
orable gentleman  who  favored  me  with  a 
postscript  in  your  last.  He  shall  hear  from  me 
and  receive  his  MSS.  soon. 


No.  XIII. 


MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 


20 th  March , 1793. 

My  Dear  Sir. 

The  song  prefixed  is  one  of  my  juvenile 
works. t I leave  it  in  your  hands.  I do  not 
think  it  very  remarkable,  either  for  its  merits 
or  demerits.  It  is  impossible  (at  least  I feel  it 
so  in  my  stinted  powers)  to  be  always  original, 
entertaining,  and  witty. 

* For  Burns’  words,  see  Poems,  p.  65.  The  song 
of  Dr.  Walcott,  on  the  same  subject,  is  as  follows  : 

Ah : ope-,  Lord  Gregory,  thy  door  ! 

A midnight  wanderer  sighs  : 

Hard  rush  the  rains,  the  tempests  roar, 

And  lightnings  cleave  the  skies. 

Who  comes  with  wo  at  this  drear  night — 

A pilgrim  of  the  gloom  ? 

If  she  whose  love  did  once  delight, 

My  cot  shall  yield  her  room. 

Alas  ! thou  heard’st  a pilgrim  mourn, 

That  once  was  prized  by  thee  ; 

Think  of  the  ring  by  yonder  burn 
Thou  gav’st  to  love  and  me. 

But  shouldst  thou  not  poor  Marian  know, 

I’ll  turn  my  feet  and  part  : 

And  think  the  stordis  that  round  me  blow, 

Far  kinder  than  thy  heart. 

It  is  but  doing  justice  to  Dr.  Walcott  to  pnention, 
that  his  song  is  the  original.  Mr  Burns  saw  it,  liked 
it,  and  immediately  wrote  the  other  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, which  is  derived  from  an  old  Scottish  ballad  of 
uncertain  origin.  E. 

t Mary  Morison,  Poems,  p.  65. 


What  is  become  of  the  list,  &c.  of  your 
songs  ? I shall  be  out  of  all  temper  with  you 
by  and  by.  I have  always  looked  upon  my- 
self as  the  priuce  of  indolent  correspondents, 
and  valued  myself  accordingly  ; and  I will  not, 
cannot  bear  rivalship  from  you,  nor  any  body 
els*. 


No.  XIV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

With  the  first  copy  of  Wandering  Willie. 
See  Poems,  p.  66. 

March,  1793. 

I leave  it  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,  to  determine 
whether  the  above,  or  the  old  Thro • the  lang 
Muir,  be  best. 


XV. 

TO  THE  SAME  . 

OPEN  THE  DOOR  TO  ME,  OH  ! 

WITH  ALTERATIONS. 

Oh  ! open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show, 

Oh ! open  the  door  to  me,  Oh  !* 

See  Poems,  p.  66. 

I do  not  know  whether  this  song  be  really 
mended. 


No.  XVI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

JESSIE. 

Tune — “ Bonnie  Dundee.” 

True  hearted  was  he.  the  sad  Swain  o’  the  Yarrow,, 
And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  hanks  o’  the  Ayr  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  66. 


No.  XVII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS 

Edinburgh,  2nd  April,  1793. 

I will  not  recognize  the  title  you  give  your- 
self, ‘‘the  prince  of  indolent  correspondents;” 
but  if  the  adjective  were  taken  away,  I think 
the  title  would  then  fit  you  exactly.  It  gives 
me  pleasure  to  find  that  you  can  furnish  anec- 
dotes with  -respect  to  most  of  the  songs; 
these  will  be  a literary  curiosity. 

I now  send  you  my  list  of  the  songs,  which  I 
believe  will  be  found  nearly  complete.  I have 
put  down  the  first  lines  of  all  the  English  songs 
which  I propose  giving  in  addition  to  the  Scotch 
verses.  If  any  others  occur  to  you,  better 
adapted  to  the  character  of  the  airs,  pray  men- 
tion them,  when  you  favor  me  with  your 

* This  second  line  was  originally, 

Of  love  it  may  na  be,  O l 


LETTERS. 


300 

strictures  upon  everything  else  relating  to  the 
work. 

Pleyel  has  lately  sent  me  a number  of  the 
songs,  with  his  symphonies  and  accompani- 
ments added  to  them.  I wish  you  were  here, 
that  I might  serve  up  some  of  them  to  you  with 
your  own  verses,  by  way  of  dessert  after  dinner. 
There  is  so  much  delightful  fancy  in  the  sym- 
phonies, and  such  a delicate  simplicity  in  the 
accompaniments — they  are  indeed  beyond  all 
praise. 

I am  very  much  pleased  with  the  several  last 
productions  of  your  muse  : your  Lord  Gregory, 
in  my  estimation,  is  more  interesting  than  Pe- 
ter’s, beautiful  asliis  is  ! Your  Hereawa  Wil- 
lie must  undergo  some  alterations  to  suit  the 
air.  Mr.  Erskine  and  I have  been  conning  it 
over  ; he  will  suggest  what  is  necessary  to  make 
them  a fit  match.* 

The  gentleman  I have  mentioned,  whose  fine 
taste  you  are  no  stranger  to,  is  so  well  pleased 
both  with  the  musical  and  poetical  part  of  our 
work,  that  he  has  volunteered  his  assistance, 
and  has  already  written  four  songs  for  it,  which, 
by  his  own  desire,  I send  for  your  perusal. 


No.  XVIII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

WHEN  WILD  WAR’S  DEADLY  BLAST  WAS 
BLAWN. 

Air — “ The  Mill  Mill  O.” 

When  wild  war’s  deadly  blast  was  blawn, 
And  gentle  peace  returning, 

See  Poems,  p.  66. 

MEG  O’  THE  MILL. 

Air — “Obonnie  lass,  will  you  lie  in  a barrack.” 

Oken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten, 
An’  ken  ye  what  Meg  o’  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 

See  Poems,  p.  67. 


No.  XIX. 

TO  THE  S AME  . 

1th  April,  1793. 

Thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your  packet. 
You  cannot  imagine  how  much  this  business 

* See  the  altered  copy  of  Wandering  Willie,  p.  66. 
of  the  Poems.  Several  of  the  alterations  seem  to 
be  of  little  importance  in  themselves,  and  were 
adopted,  ii  may  be  presumed,  for  the  sake  of  suiting 
the  words  better  to  the  music.  The  Homeric  epithet 
for  the  sea.  dark-tieaviv g,  suggested  by  Mr.  Eiskirie, 
is  in  itself  more  beautiful,  as  well  perhaps  as  more 
sublime,  titan  toild-marivg.  which  he  has  retained  ; 
but  as  it  is  only  applicable  to  a placid  state  of  the  sea, 
or  at  m»st  to  the  swell  left  on  its  surface  after 
the  storm  is  over,  it  gives  a picture  of  that  ele- 
ment not  so  well  adapted  to  the  ideas  of  eternal 
separation,  which  the  fair  mourner  is  supposed  to 
imprecate.  From  the  original  song  of  Here  awa 
Willie , Burns  has  borrowed  nothing  but  the  sec- 
ond line  and  part  of  the  first.  The  superior  excel- 
lence of  this  beautiful  poem,  will,  it  is  hoped,  jus- 
tify the  different  editions  of  it  which  we  have  given. 


of  composing  for  your  publication  has  added  to 
my  enjoyments.  What  with  my  early  attach- 
ment to  ballads,  your  books,  &c.,  ballad-mak- 
ing is  now  as  completely  my  hobby- horse ; as 
ever  fortification  was  uncle  Toby’s  ; so  I’ll  e’en 
canter  it  away  till  I come  to  the  limit  of  my 
race  (God  grant  that  I may  take  the  right  side 
of  the  winning  post !)  and  then  cheerfully  look- 
ing back  on  the  honest  folks  with  whom  I have 
been  happy,  I shall  say  or  sing,  “ Sae  merry 
as  we  a’  hae  been  !”  and  raising  my  last  looks 
to  the  whole  human  race,  the  last  words  of  the 
voice  of  Coila*  shall  be,  “ Goodnight,  and  joy 
be  wi’  you  a’  !”  So  much  for  my  past  words : 
now  for  a fewT  present  remarks,  as  they  have 
occurred  at  random  on  looking  over  your  list. 

The  first  lines  of  The  last  time  I came  o'er  the 
moor,  and  several  other  lines  in  it,  are  beautiful; 
but  in  my  opinion — pardon  me  revered  shade  of 
Ramsay!  the  song  is  unworthy  of  the  divine  air. 
I shall  try  to  make  or  mend.  Forever,  Fortune, 
wilt  thou  prove,  is  a charming  song  ! but  Lo^an 
burn  and  Logan  braes , are  sweetly  susceptible 
of  rural  imagery  : I’ll  try  that  likewise,  and  if 
I succeed,  the  other  song  may  class  among  the 
English  ones.  I remember  the  two  last  lines 
of  a verse,  in  some  of  the  old  songs  of  Logan 
Water  (for  I know  a good  many  different  ones) 
which  I think  pretty. 

“ Now  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 

Far,  farfrae  me  and  Logan  braes.” 

My  Patie  is  a lover  gay,  is  unequal.  “ His 
mind  is  never  muddy,”  is  a muddy  expression 
indeed. 

“ Then  I’ll  resign  and  marry  Pate, 

And  syne  my  cockernony.” — 

This  is  surely  far  unworthy  of  Ramsay,  or 
your  book.  My  song,  Rigs  of  Barley,  to  the 
same  tune,  does  not  altogether  please  me  ; but  if 
I can  mend  it,  and  thresh  a few  loose  sentiments 
out  of  it,  I will  submit  it  to  your  consideration. 
The  Lass  o'  Patie's  Mill  is  one  of  Ramsay’s 
best  songs  ; but  there  is  one  loose  sentiment  in 
it,  which  my  much  valued  friend  Mr.  Erskine 
will  take  into  his  critical  consideration.  In 
Sir  J.  Sinclair’s  Statistical  volumes,  are  two 
claims,  one,  I think,  from  Aberdeenshire,  and 
the  other  from  Ayrshire,  for  the  honor  of  this 
song.  The  following  anecdote,  which  I had 
from  the  present  Sir  William  Cunningham  of 
Roberiland,  who  had  it  of  the  late  John,  Earl 
of  Loudon,  I can,  on  such  authorities,  believe. 

Allan  Ramsay  w>as  residing  at  Loudon-castle 
with  the  then  Earl,  father  to  Earl  John  ; and 
one  forenoon,  riding  or  walking  out  together, 
his  Lordship  and  Allan  passed  asweet  romantic 
spot  on  Irvine  water,  still  called  “ Patie’s 
Mill,”  where  a honnie  lass  was  “ tedding  hay, 
bare  headed  on  the  green.”  My  Lord  observed 
to  Allan,  that  it  w'ould  be  a fine  theme  for  a 
song.  Ramsay  took  the  hint,  and  lingering  be- 
hind, he  composed  the  first  sketch  of  it,  which 
he  produced  at  dinner. 

One  day  1 heard  Mary  say,  is  a fine  song  ; 
but  for  consistency’s  sake  alter  the  name  “ Ado- 

*Burns  here  calls  himself  the  Voice  of  Coila  »n 
imitation  of  Ossian,  who  denominates  himself  the 
Voice  of  Cona.  Sae  merry  as  we  a’  hae  been  .*  and 
Good  night  and  joy  be  wi’  you  a’,  are  the  names  of 
two  Scottish  tunes. 


LETTERS. 


301 


nis.”  Were  there  ever  such  banns  published, 
as  a purpose  of  marriage  between  Adonis  and 
Mary  ? I agree  with  you  that  my  song,  There' s 
naught  but  care  on  every  hand-,  is  much  superior 
to  Foortith  cuuld.  The  original  song.  The 
Mill  Mill  0,  though  excellent,  is.  on  account 
of  delicacy,  inadmissible  ; still  I like  the  title, 
and  think  a Scottish  song  would  suit  the  notes 
best ; and  let  your  chosen  song,  which  is  very 
pretty,  follow,  as  an  English  set.  The  Batiks 
of  the  Dee,  is,  you  know,  literally  Langolee,  to 
slow  time.  The  song  is  well  enough,  but  has 
some  false  imagery  in  it : for  instance, 

“ And  sweetly  the  nightingale  sung  from  the  free.” 

In  the  first  place,  the  nightingale  sings  in  a 
low  bush,  but  never  from  a tree  ; and  in  the  sec- 
ond place,  there  never  was  a nightingale  seen, 
or  heard,  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee,  or  on  the 
banks  of  any  other  river  in  Scotland.  Exotic 
rural  imagery  is  always  comparatively  flat.  If 
I could  hit  on  another  stanza,  equal  to  The 
small  birds  rejoice,  &c.  1 do  myself  honestly 
avow,  that  I think  it  a superior  song.*  John 
Anderson  my  jo — the  song  to  this  tune  in  John- 
son’s Museum,  is  my  composition,  and  I think  it 
not  my  worst : if  it  suit  you,  take  it,  and  wel- 
come. Your  collection  of  sentimental  and  pa- 
thetic songs,  is,  in  my  opinion,  very  comple'e  ; 
but  not  so  your  comic  ones.  Where  are  Tul- 
lochgorum,  Lumps  o'  puddin,  Tibbie  Fowler , 
and  several  others,  which,  in  my  humble  judg- 
ment, are  well  worthy  of  preservation  ? There 
is  also  one  sentimental  song  of  mine  in  the  Mu- 
seum, which  never  was  known  out  of  the  im- 
mediate neighborhood,  until  I got  it  taken  down 
from  a country  girl’s  singing.  It  is  called 
Craigieburn  Wood  ; and  in  the  opinion  of  Mr. 
Clarke,  is  one  of  the  sweetest  Scottish  songs. 
He  is  quite  an  enthusiast  about  it  : and  I would 
take  his  taste  in  Scottish  music  against  the  taste 
of  most  connoisseurs. 

You  are  quite  right  in  inserting  the  last  five 
in  your  list,  though  they  are  certainly  Irish. 
Shepherds  I have  lost  my  love  ! is  to  me  a heav- 
enly air — what  would  you  think  of  a set  of 
Scottish  verses  to  it  ? I have  made  one  to  it  a 
ood  while  ago,  which  1 think  * * * 

ut  in  its  original  state  is  not  quite  a lady’s  song. 
I enclose  an  altered,  not  amended  copy  for 
you.  if  you  choose  to  set  the  tune  to  it,  and  let 
the  Irish  verses  follow,  t 

Mr.  Erskine’s  songs  are  all  pretty,  but  his 
Lone  Vale,  is  divine.  Yours,  &c. 

Let  me  know  just  how  you  like  these  random 
hints. 

* It  will  be  found,  in  the  course  of  this  correspon- 
dence, that  the  Bard  produced  a second  stanza  of 
The  Chevalier's  Lament  (to  which  he  here  alludes) 
worthy  of  the  first.  E. 

•f  Mr.  Thomson,  it  appears,  did  not  approve  of  this 
■ong.even  in  its  altered  state.  It  does  not  appear 
in  the  correspondence  ; but  it  is  probably  one  to  be 
found  in  his  MSS.  beginning, 

“ Yestreen  I got  a pint  of  wine, 

A place  where  body  saw  na  ; 

Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  of  mine, 

The  gowden  locks  of  Anna.” 

It  is  highly  characteristic  of  our  Bard,  but  the 
strain  of  sentiment  does  not  correspond  with  the  air 
to  which  he  proposes  it  should  be  allied.  E. 


No.  XX. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh , April,  1793. 

I rejoice  to  find,  my  dear  Sir,  that  ballad-ma- 
king continues  to  be  your  hobby-horse.  Great 
pity  'twould  be  were  it  otherwise.  I hope  you 
will  amble  it  away  for  many  a year,  and  “witch 
the  world  with  your  horsemanship.” 

I know  there  are  a good  many  lively  songs 
of  merit  that  I have  not  put  down  in  the 
list  sent  you  ; but  I have  them  all  in  my  eye. 
My  Patie  is  a lover  gay,  though  a little  une- 
qual, is  a natural  and  very  pleasing  song,  and 
1 humbly  think  we  ought  not  to  displace  or 
alter  it,  except  the  last  stanza.* 


No.  XXI. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

April , 1793. 

I have  yours,  my  dear  Sir,  this  moment, 
shall  answer  it  and  your  former  letter,  in  my 
desultory  way  of  saying  whatever  comes  upper- 
most. 

The  business  of  many  of  our  tunes  wanting, 
at  the  beginning,  what  fiddlers  call  a starling- 
note,  is  often  a rub  to  us  poor  rhymers. 

*“  There’s  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  brae9, 
That  wander  through  the  blooming  heather,” 

You  may  alter  to 

“ Braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 

Ye  wander,”  &c. 

My  song,  Here  awa.  there  awa,  as  amended 
by  Mr.  Erskine,  I entirely  approve  of,  and  re- 
turn you.t 

Give  me  leave  to  criticise  your  taste,  in  the 
only  thing  in  which  it  is,  in  my  opinion,  repre- 
hensible. You  know,  I ought  to  know  some- 
thing of  my  own  trade.  01  pathos,  sentiment, 
and  point,  you  are  a complete  judge  : but  there 
is  a quality  more  necessary  than  either,  in  a 
song,  and  which  is  the  very  essence  of  a ballad, 
I mean  simplicity  : now,  if  I mistake  not,  this 
last  feature  you  are  a little  apt  to  sacrifice  to  the 
foregoing. 

Ramsay,  as  every  other  poet,  has  not  been 
always  equally  happy  in  his  pieces ; still  I can- 
not approve  of  taking  such  liberties  with  an 
author  as  Mr.  W.  proposes  doing  with  The  last 
time  I came  o'er  the  moor.  Let  a poet,  if  he 
chooses,  take  up  the  idea  of  another,  and  work 
it  into  a piece  of  his  own  ; but  to  mangle  the 
works  of  the  poor  bard,  whose  tuneful  tongue 
is  now  mute  for  ever,  in  the  dark  and  narrow 
house — by  Heaven,  ’twould  be  sacrilege  ! I 
grant  that  Mr.  W.’s  version  is  an  improvement: 
but  I know  Mr.  W.  well,  and  esteem  him 
much  ; let  him  mend  the  song,  as  the  High- 
lander mended  his  gun — he  gave  it  a new  stock, 
a new  lock,  and  a new  barrel. 

* The  original  letter  from  Mr.  Thomson  contains 
many  observations  on  the  Scottish  songs,  and  on  the 
manner  of  adapting  the  words  to  the  music,  which  at 
his  desire,  are  suppressed.  The  subsequent  let- 
ter of  Mr.  Burns  refers  to  several  of  these  obser- 
vations. E. 

t The  reader  has  already  seen  that  Burns  did  not 
finally  adopt  all  of  Mr.  Erskine’s  alterations.  E. 


302 


LETTERS. 


I do  not  by  this  object  to  leaving  out  impro- 
per stanzas,  where  that  can  be  done  without 
spoiling  the  whole.  One  stanza  in  The  Lass 
of  Patie's  Mill . must  be  left  out : the  song  will 
be  nothing  worse  for  it.  I am  not  sure  if  we 
can  take  the  same  liberty  with  Corn  rigs  are 
honnie.  Perhaps  it  might  want  the  last  stanza, 
and  be  the  better  for  it.  Cauld  kail  in  Aber- 
deen, you  must  leave  with  me  yet  a while.  I 
have  vowed  to  have  a song  to  that  air,  on  the 
lady  whom  I attempted  to  celebrate  in  the 
verses  Poortilh  cauld  and  restless  love.  At  any 
rate,  my  other  song,  Green  grow  the  rashes, 
will  never  suit.  That  song  is  current  in  Scot- 
land under  the  old  title,  and  to  the  merry  old 
tune  of  that  name.,  which  of  course  would  mar 
the  progress  of  your  song  to  celebrity.  Your 
bbok  will  be  the  standard  of  Scots  songs  for  the 
iuture  : let  this  idea  ever  keep  your  judgment 
$jn  the  alarm. 

I send  a song,  on  a celebrated  toast  in  this 
country,  to  suit  Bonnie  Dundee.  I send  you 
also  a ballad  to  the  Mill  Mill  0 * 

The  last  time  I came  o' er  the  moor,  I would 
fain  attempt  to  make  a Scots  song  for,  and  let 
Ramsay’s  be  the  English  set.  You  shall  hear 
from  me  soon.  When  you  go  to  London  on 
this  business,  can  you  come  by  Dumfries?  I 
have  still  several  MSS.  Scots  airs  by  me  which 
I have  picked  up,  mostly  from  the  singing  of 
country  lasses.  They  please  me  vastly  ; but 
your  learned  lugs  would  perhaps  be  displeased 
with  the  very  feature  for  which  I like  them.  J 
call  them  simple ; you  would  pronounce  them 
silly.  Do  you  know  a fine  air  called  Jackie 
Hume's  Lament  ? I have  a song  of  consider- 
able merit  to  that  air.  I’ll  enclose  you  both 
the  song  and  tune,  as  1 had  them  ready  to  send 
to  Johnson’s  Museum. t I send  you  likewise, 
to  me,  a very  beautiful  little  air,  which  I had 
taken  down  from  viva  voce.X 

Adieu ! 


No.  XXII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

April,  1793. 

My  Dear  Sir, 

I had  scarcely  put  my  last  letter  into  the  post- 
office,  when  I took  up  the  subject  of  The  last 
lime  I came  o'er  the  moor,  and,  ere  I slept,  drew 
the  outlines  of  the  foregoing.^  How  far  I have 
succeeded,  I leave  on  this,  as  on  every  other 
occasion,  to  you  to  decide.  I own  my  vanity 
is  flattered,  when  you  give  my  songs  a place  in 
your  elegant  and  superb  work  ; but  to  be  of 
service  to  the  work  is  my  first  wish.  As  I have 

* The  song  to  the  tune  of  Bonnie  Dundee,  is  that 
given  in  the  Poems,  p.  66.  The  ballad  to  the  Mill 
Mill  O,  is  that  beginning — 

“ When  wild  war’s  deadly  blast  was  blawn.” 

t The  song  here  mentioned  is  that  given  in  the 
Poems,  p.  67.  O ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  got- 
ten ? This  song  is  surely  Mr.  Burns’s  own  writing, 
though  he  does  not  generally  praise  his  own  songs 
so  much. — Mote  by  Mr.  Thomso7i. 

$ The  air  here  mentioned  is  that  for  which  he 
wrote  the  ballad  of  Bonnie  Jean,  given  in  p.  67  of  the 
Poems. 

$ See  Poems,  page  83.—  Young  Peggy. 


often  told  you,  1 do  not  in  a single  instance  wish 
you,  out  of  compliment  to  me,  to  insert  any 
thing  of  mine.  One  hint  let  me  give  you — 
whatever  Mr.  Pleyel  does,  let  him  not  alter 
one  iota  of  the  original  Scottish  airs  ; I mean 
in  the  song  department ; but  let  our  national 
music  preserve  its  native  features.  They  are, 
I own,  frequently  wild  and  irreducible  to  the 
more  modern  rules  ; but  on  that  very  eccentri- 
city, perhaps,  depends  a great  part  of  their  effect. 

No.  XXIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  26eA  April,  1793. 

I heartily  thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your 
last  two  letters,  and  the  songs  which  accom- 
panied them.  I am  always  both  instructed  and 
entertained  by  observations  ; and  the  frankness 
with  which  you  speak  out  your  mind,  is  to  me 
highly  agreeable.  It  is  very  possible  I may  not 
have  the  true  idea  of  simplicity  in  composition. 
I confess  there  are  several  songs,  of  Allan 
Ramsay’s  for  example,  that  I think  silly  enough, 
which  another  person,  more  conversant  than  I 
have  been  with  country  people,  would  perhaps 
call  simple  and  natural.  But  the  lowest  scenes 
of  simple  nature  will  not  please  generally,  if 
copied  precisely  as  they  are.  The  poet,  like 
the  painter,  must  select  what  will  form  an 
agreeable  as  well  as  a natural  picture.  On  this 
subject,  it  were  easy  to  enlarge;  but  at  present 
suffice  it  to  say,  that  I consider  simplicity, 
rightly  understood,  as  a most  essential  quality 
in  composition,  and  the  ground-work  of  beauty 
in  all  the  arts.  I will  gladly  appropriate  your 
most  interesting  new  ballad,  When  wild  war's 
deadly  blast,  &c.,  to  the  Mill  Mill  0.  as  well 
as  the  two  other  songs  to  their  respective  airs ; 
but  the  third  and  fourth  lines  of  the  first  verse 
must  undergo  some  little  alteration  in  order  to 
suit  the  music.  Pleyel  does  not  alter  a single 
note  of  the  songs.  That  would  be  absurd  in- 
deed ! With  the  airs  which  he  introduces  into 
the  sonatas,  I allow  him  to  take  such  liberties 
as  he  pleases  ; but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  songs. 

AY  

P.  S.  I wish  you  would  do  as  you  proposed 
with  your  Rigs  of  Barley.  If  the  loose  senti- 
ments are  threshed  out  of  it,  I will  find  an  air 
for  it ; but  as  to  this  there  is  no  hurry. 


No.  XXIV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

June,  1793. 

When  I tell  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  a friend 
of  mine,  in  whom  I am  much  interested,  has 
fallen  a sacrifice  to  these  accursed  times,  you 
will  easily  allow  that  it  might  unhinge  me  for 
doing  any  good  among  ballads.  My  own  loss, 
as  to  pecuniary  matters,  is  trifling  ; but  the  total 
ruin  of  a much-loved  friend,  is  a loss  indeed. 
Pardon  my  seeming  inattention  to  your  last 
commands. 

I cannot  alter  the  disputed  lines  in  the  Mill 


LETTERS. 


303 


Mill  0*  What  you  think  a defect,  I esteem  as 
a positive  beauty  ; so  you  see  how  doctors  differ. 
I shall  now,  with  as  much  alacrity  as  I can 
muster,  go  on  with  your  commands. 

You  know  Frazer,  the  hautboy-player  in 
Edinburgh — he  is  here,  instructing  a band  of 
music  tor  a fencible  corps  quartered  in  this 
country.  Among  many  of  his  airs  that  please 
me,  there  is  one,  well  known  as  a reel,  by  the 
name  of  The  Quaker's  Wife  ; and  which  I re- 
member a grand  aunt  of  mine  used  to  sing  by 
the  name  ot  Liggeram  Cosh,  my  honnie  wee  lass. 
Mr.  Frazer  plays  it  slow,  anu  with  an  expres- 
sion that  quite  charms  me.  I became  such 
an  enthusiast  about  it,  that  I made  a song  for 
it,  which  I here  subjoin,  and  enclose  Frazer’s 
set  of  the  tune.  If  they  hit  your  fancy,  they 
are  at  your  service  ; if  not,  return  me  the  tune, 
and  I will  put  it  in  Johnson’s  Museum.  I think 
the  song  is  not  in  my  worst  manner. 

Blythe  hae  I been  on  yon  hill, 

As  the  lambs  before  me. 

■See  Poems , p.  67. 

I should  wish  to  hear  how  this  pleases  you. 


No.  XXV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

25 th  June , 1793. 

Have  you  ever,  my  dear  Sir,  felt  your  bosom 
ready  to  burst  with  indignation  on  reading  of 
those  mighty  villains  who  divide  kingdom 
against  kingdom,  desolate  provinces,  and  lay 
nations  waste,  out  of  the  wantonness  of  ambi- 
tion, or  often  from  still  more  ignoble  passions? 
In  a mood  of  this  kind  to-day,  I recollected  the 
air  of  Logan  Water;  and  it  occurred  to  me  that 
its  querulous  melody  probably  had  its  origin 
from  the  plaintive  indignation  of  some  swelling, 
suffering  heart,  fired  at  the  tyrannic  strides  of 
some  public  destroyer  ; and  overwhelmed  with 
private  distress,  the  consequence  of  a country’s 
ruin.  If  I have  done  any  thing  at  all  like  jus- 
tice to  my  feelings,  the  following  song,  com- 
posed in  three  quarters  of  an  hour’s  meditation 
in  my  elbow  chair,  ought  to  have  some  merit. 

O Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide, 

That  day  I was  my  Willie’s  bride. 

See  Poems , p.  67. 

Do  you  know  the  following  beautiful  little 
fragment  in  Witherspoon’s  Collection  of  Scots 
Songs  ? 

“ O gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa\” 

■See  Poems , p.  68. 

* The  lines  were  the  third  and  fourth.  See 
Poems,  p.  66. 

“ Wi’  mony  a sweet  bahe  fatherless, 

And  mony  a widow  mourning.” 

As  our  poet  had  maintained  a long  silence,  and  the 
first  number  of  Mr.  Thomson’s  Musical  Work  was 
in  the  press,  this  gentleman  ventured  by  Mr.  Er- 
skine’s  advice,  to  substitute  for  them  in  that  publi- 
cation— 

“And  eyes  again  with  pleasure  beam’d 
That  had  been  blear’d  with  mourning.” 
Though  better  suited  to  the  music,  these  lines  are 
inferior  to  the  original.  This  is  the  only  alteration 
adopted  by  Mr.  Thomson,  which  Burns  did  not  ap- 
prove, or  at  least  assent  to. 


This  thought  is  inexpressibly  beautiful : and 
quite,  so  far  as  I know,  original.  It  is  too  short 
lor  a song,  else  I would  forswear  you  altogether 
unless  you  gave  it  a place.  I have  often  tried 
to  eke  a stanza  to  it,  but  in  vain.  After  bal- 
ancing myself  for  a musing  live  minutes,  on  the 
hind  legs  of  my  elbow  chair,  I produced  the 
following. 

The  verses  are  far  inferior  to  the  foregoing,  I 
frankly  confess ; but,  if  worthy  of  insertion  at 
all,  they  might  be  first  in  place  ; as  every  poet, 
who  knows  any  thing  of  his  trade,  will  husband 
his  best  thoughts  for  a concluding  stroke. 

O,  were  my  love  yon  lilacli  fair, 

Wi’  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring. 

See  Poems,  p.  G8. 


No.  XXVI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Monday,  1st  July,  1793. 

I am  extremely  sorry,  my  good  Sir,  that  any 
thing  should  happen  to  unhinge  you.  The  times 
are  terribly  out  of  tune : and  when  harmony 
will  be  restored,  Heaven  knows. 

The  first  book  of  songs,  just  published,  will 
be  despatched  to  you  along  with  this.  Let  me 
be  favored  with  your  opinion  of  it  frankly  and 
freely. 

I shall  certainly  give  a place  to  the  song  you 
have  written  for  the  Quaker's  Wife  ; it  is  quite 
enchanting.  Pray,  will  you  return  the  list  of 
songs  with  such  airs  added  to  it  as  you  think 
ought  to  be  included.  The  business  now  rests 
entirely  on  myself,  the  gentlemen  who  origin- 
ally agreed  to  join  the*  speculation  having  re- 
quested to  be  off.  No  matter,  a loser  I cannot 
be.  The  superior  excellence  of  the  work  will 
create  a general  demand  for  it  as  soon  as  it  is 
properly  known.  And  were  the  sale  even 
slower  than  it  promises  to  be,  I should  be 
somewhat  compensated  for  my  labor,  by  the 
pleasure  I shall  receive  from  the  music.  1 can- 
not express  how  much  I am  obliged  to  you  for 
the  exquisite  new  songs  you  are  sending  me  ; 
but  thanks,  my  friend,  are  a poor  return  for 
what  you  have  done  : as  I shall  be  benefited 
by  the  publication,  you  must  suffer  me  to  en- 
close a small  mark  of  my  gratitude,  * and  re- 
peat it  afterwards  when  I find  it  convenient. 
Do  not  return  it,  for,  by  Heaven,  if  you  do,  our 
correspondence  is  at  an  end : and  though  this 
would  be  no  loss  to  you,  it  would  mar  the  pub- 
lication, which  under  your  auspices  cannot  fail 
to  be  respectable  and  interesting. 


Wednesday  Morning. 

I thank  you  for  your  delicate  additional  verses 
to  the  old  fragment,  and  for  your  excellent 
song  to  Logan  Water ; Thomson’s  truly  ele- 
gant one  will  follow,  for  the  English  singer. 
Your  apostrophe  to  the  statesman  is  admirable: 
but  I am  not  sure  if  it  is  quite  suitable  to  the 
supposed  gentle  character  of  the  fair  mourner 
who  speaks  it. 

% Five  Pounds,  (£5). 

\ 


304 


LETTERS 


No.  XXVII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

July  2d,  1793. 

My  Dear  Sir, 

I have  just  finished  the  following  ballad,  and, 
as  I do  think  it  in  my  best  style,  I send  it  you. 
Mr.  Clarke,  who  wrote  down  the  air  from  Mrs. 
Burns’s  wood-note  wild,  is  very  fond  of  it,  and 
has  given  it  a celebrity,  by  teaching  it  to  some 
young  ladies  of  the  first  fashion  here.  If  you 
do  not  like  the  air  enough  to  give  it  a place  in 
your  collection,  please  return  it.  The  song  you 
may  keep,  as  1 remember  it. 

There  was  a lass,  and  she  was  fair, 

At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen. 

See  Poems,  p.  68. 

I have  some  thoughts  of  inserting  in  your  in- 
dex, or  in  my  notes,  the  names  of  the  fair  ones, 
the  themes  of  my  songs  ; 1 do  not  mean  the 
name  at  full ; but  dashes  or  asterisms,  so  as 
ingenuity  may  find  them  out. 

The  heroine  of  the  foregoing  is  Miss  M., 
daughter  to  Mr.  M.,  of  D.,  one  of  your  sub- 
scribers. I have  not  painted  her  in  the  rank 
which  she  holds  in  life,  but  in  the  dress  and 
character  of  a cottager. 


No.  XXVIII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

July,  1793. 

I assure  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  you  truly 
hurt  me  with  your  pecuniary  parcel.  It  de- 
grades me  in  my  own  eyes.  However,  to  re- 
turn it  would  savor  of  affectation  : but  as  to 
any  more  traffic  of  that  debtor  and  creditor 
kind,  I swear  by  that  Honor  which  crowns  the 
upright  statue  of  Robert  Burns’s  Integrity, 
on  the  least  motion  of  it,  I will  indignantly 
spurn  the  by-past  transaction,  and  from  that 
moment  commence  entire  stranger  to  you ! 
Burns’s  character  for  generosity  of  sentiment 
and  independence  of  mind,  will,  I trust,  long 
out-live  any  of  his  wants  which  the  cold  un- 
feeling ore  can  supply : at  least,  I will  take 
care  that  such  a character  he  shall  deserve. 

Thank  you  for  my  copy  of  your  publication. 
Never  did  my  eyes  behold,  in  any  musical 
work,  such  elegance  and  correctness.  Your 
preface,  too,  is  admirably  written  ; only  your 
partiality  to  me  has  made  you  say  too  much  : 
however,  it  will  bind  me  down  to  double  every 
effort  in  the  future  progress  of  the  work.  The 
following  are  a few  remarks  on  the  songs  in  the 
list  you  sent  me.  I never  copy  what  I write  to 
you,  so  I may  be  often  tautological,  or  perhaps 
contradictory. 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  is  charming  as  a 
poem,  and  should  be,  and  must  be,  set  to  the 
notes;  but,  though  out  of  your  rule,  the  three 
stanzas  beginning, 

“ I hae  seen  the  smiling  o’  fortune  beguiling,” 

are  worthy  of  a place,  were  it  but  to  immortal- 
ize the  author  of  them,  who  is  an  old  lady  of 
my  acquaintance,  and  at  this  moment  living  in 
Edinburgh.  She  is  a Mrs.  Cockburn ; I for- 
get of  what  place  ; but  from  Roxburghshire. 


What  a charming  apostrophe  is — 

“ O fickle  fortune,  why  this  cruel  sporting, 

Why,  why  torment  us — poor  sons  of  a day  /” 

The  old  ballad,  1 wish  I were  where  Helen 
lies,  is  silly  to  contemptibility.*  My  alteration 
of  it  in  Johnson’s  is  not  much  better.  Mr. 
Pinkerton,  in  his  what  he  calls  ancient  ballads, 
(many  of  them  notorious,  though  beautiful 
enough,  forgeries)  has  the  best  set.  It  is  full 
of  his  own  interpolations,  but  no  matter. 

In  my  next,  I will  suggest  to  your  considera- 
tion a few  songs  which  may  have  escaped  your 
hurried  notice.  In  the  mean  time,  allow  me  to 
congratulate  you  now,  as  a brother  of  the  quill. 
You  have  committed  your  character  and  fame: 
which  will  now  be  tried  for  ages  to  come,  by 
the  illustrious  jury  of  the  Sons  and  Daughters 
of  Taste — all  whom  poesy  can  please,  or  music 
charm. 

Being  a bard  of  nature,  I have  some  preten- 
sions to  second  sight ; and  I am  warranted  by 
the  spirit  to  foretell  and  affirm,  that  your  great- 
grand-child  will  hold  up  your  volumes,  and  say, 
with  honest  pride,  “ This  so  much  admired  se- 
lection was  the  work  of  my  ancestor.” 


No.  XXIX. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  1st  August,  1793. 

Dear  Sir, 

I had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  your  last  two 
letters,  and  am  happy  to  find  you  are  quite 
pleased  with  the  appearance  of  the  first  book. 
When  you  come  to  hear  the  songs  sung  and 
accompanied,  you  will  be  charmed  with  them. 

The  bonnie  bruchet  Lassie,  certainly  deserves 
better  verses,  and  I hope  you  will  match  her. 
Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen,  Let  me  in  this  ae 
night,  and  several  of  the  livelier  airs,  wait  the 
muse’s  leisure:  these  are  peculiarly  worthy 
of  her  choice  gifts:  besides,  you’ll  notice,  that 
in  airs  of  this  sort,  the  singer  can  always  do 
greater  justice  to  the  poet,  than  in  the  slower 
airs  of  The  Bush  aboon  Traquair,  Lord  Gre- 
gory, and  the  like  ; for,  in  the  manner  the  latter 
are  frequently  sung,  you  must  be  contented 
with  the  sound,  without  the  sense.  Indeed, 
both  the  airs  and  words  are  disguised  by  the 
very  slow,  languid,  psalm-singing  style  in 
which  they  are  too  often  performed,  they  lose 
animation  and  expression  altogether;  and,  in- 
stead of  speaking  to  the  mind,  or  touching  the 
heart,  they  cloy  upon  the  ear,  and  set  us  a 
yawning ! 

Your  ballad,  There  was  a lass  and  she  was 
fair,  is  simple  and  beautiful,  and  shall  un- 
doubtedly grace  my  collection. 

No.  XXX. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

My  Dear  Thomson, 

I hold  the  pen  for  our  friend  Clarke,  who  at 
present  is  studying  the  music  of  the  spheres  at 

* There  is  a copy  of  this  ballad  given  in  the  ac- 
count of  the  Parish  of  Kirkpatrick-Fleeming  (which 
contains  the  tomb  of  fair  Helen  Irvine,)  in  the  Sta- 
tistics of  Sir  John  Sinclair,  vol.  xiii,  p.  275,  to  which 
this  character  is  certainly  not  applicable. 


LETTERS. 


305 


my  elbow.  The  Georgium  Sidus  he  thinks  is 
rather  out  of  tune  ; so  until  he  rectifies  that 
matter,  he  cannot  stoop  to  terrestrial  affairs. 

He  sends  you  six  of  the  Rondeau  subjects, 
and  if  more  are  wanted,  he  says  you  shall  have 
them. 


Confound 


your  long  stairs  ! 


S.  CLARKE. 


No.  XXXI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

August,  1793. 

Your  objection,  my  dear  Sir,  to  the  passages 
in  my  song  of  Logan  JVater,  is  right  in  one  in- 
stance, but  it  is  difficult  to  mend  it ; if  I can,  I 
will.  The  other  passage  you  object  to,  does  not 
appear  in  the  same  light  to  me. 

I have  tried  my  hand  on  Robin  Adair,  and 
you  will  probably  think,  with  little  success: 
but  it  is  such  a cursed,  cramp,  out-of-the-way 
measure,  that  I despair  of  doing  any  thing  bet- 
ter to  it. 

PHILLIS  THE  FAIR. 

While  larks  with  little  wing, 

Fann’d  the  pure  air. 

See  Poems , p.  68. 

So  much  for  namby-pamby.  I may,  after  all, 
try  my  hand  on  it  in  Scots  verse.  There  I al- 
ways find  myself  most  at  home. 

1 have  just  put  the  last  hand  to  the  song  1 
meant  for  Cuuld  Kail  in  Aberdeen . If  it  suits 
you  to  insert  it,  l shall  be  pleased,  as  the  he- 
roine is  a favorite  of  mine ; if  not,  I shall  also 
be  pleased  ; because  I wish,  and  will  be  glad, 
to  see  you  act  decidedly  on  the  business.*  ’Tis 
a tribute,  as  a man  of  taste,  and  as  an  editor, 
which  you  owe  yourself. 


No.  XXXII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

August . 1793. 

My  Good  Sir, 

I consider  it  one  of  the  most  agreeable  cir- 
cumstances attending  this  publication  of  mine, 
that  it  has  procured  me  so  many  of  your  much 
valued  epistles.  Pray,  make  my  acknow- 
ledgments to  St.  Stephen,  for  the  tunes:  tell 
him  1 admit  the  justness  of  his  complaint  on 
my  staircase,  conveyed  in  his  laconic  postscript 
to  your  jeu  d'  esprit,  which  I perused  more 
than  once,  without  discovering  exactly  whether 
your  discussion  was  music,  astronomy,  or  poli- 
tics: though  a sagacious  friend,  acquainted  with 
the  convivial  habits  of  the  poet  and  the  musi- 
cian, offered  me  a bet  of  two  to  one,  you  were 
just  drowning  care  together;  that  an  empty 
bowl  was  the  only  thing  that  would  deeply  af- 
fect you-,  and  the  only  matter  you  could  then 
study  how  to  remedy  ! 

• The  song  herewith  sent,  is  that  in  p.  69,  of  the 


T shall  be  glad  to  see  you  give  Robin  Adair  a 
Scottish  dress.  Peter  is  furnishing  him  with  an 
English  suit  for  a change,  and  you  are  well 
matched  together.  Robin’s  air  is  excellent, 
though  he  certainly  has  an  out-of-the-way 
measure,  as  ever  poor  Parnassian  wight  was 
plagued  with.  I wish  you  would  invoke  the 
muse  for  a single  elegant  stanza  to  be  substitut- 
ed for  the  concluding  objectionable  verses  of 
Down  the  Burn  Davie,  so  that  this  most  exqui- 
site song  may  no  longer  be  excluded  from  good 
company. 

Mr.  Allan  has  made  an  inimitable  drawing 
from  your  John  Anderson  my  Jo,  which  I am 
to  have  engraved  as  a frontispiece  to  the  hum- 
orous class  of  songs:  you  will  be  quite  charmed 
with  it,  1 promise  you.  The  old  couple  are 
seated  by  the  fireside.  Mrs.  Anderson,  in  great 
good  humor,  is  clapping  John’s  shoulders,  while 
he  smiles,  and  looks  at  her  with  such  glee,  as 
to  show  that  he  fully  recollects  ihe  pleasant 
days  and  nights  when  they  were  first  aequent. 
The  drawing  would  do  honor  to  the  pencil  of 
Teniers. 


No.  XXXIII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

That  crinkum-crankum  tune,  Robin  Adair, 
has  run  so  in  my  head,  and  I succeeded  so  ill 
in  my  last  attempt,  that  I have  ventured  in 
this  morning’s  walk,  one  essay  more.  You, 
my  dear  Sir,  will  remember  an  unfortunate  part 
of  our  worthy  friend  C.’s  story,  which  happen- 
ed about  three  years  ago.  That  struck  my 
fancy,  and  I endeavored  to  do  the  idea  justice 
as  follows  : 


SONG. 

Had  I a cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore, 

Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  wave’s  dashing  roar. 

See  Poems,  p.  68. 

By  the  way,  I have  met  with  a musical 
Highlander,  in  Bredalbane’s  Fencibles,  which 
are  quartered  here,  who  assures  ine  that  he 
well  remembers  his  mother’s  singing  Gaelic 
songs  to  both  Robin  Adair  and  Gramachree . 
They  certainly  have  more  of  the  Scotch  than 
Irish  taste  in  them. 

This  man  comes  from  the  vicinity  of  In- 
verness ; so  it  could  not  be  any  intercourse 
with  Ireland  that  could  bring  them  ; — except, 
wffiat  I shrewdly  suspect  to  be  the  case,  the 
wandering  minstrels,  harpers,  and  pipers,  used 
to  go  frequently  errant  through  the  wilds  both 
of  Scotland  and  Ireland,  and  so  some  favorite 
airs  might  be  common  to  both.  A case  in  point 
— They  have  lately,  in  Ireland,  published  an 
Irish  air,  as  they  say,  called  Caun  du  delish. 
The  fact  is,  in  a publication  of  Corri’s,  a great 
while  ago,  you  will  find  the  same  air,  called  a 
Highland  one,  with  a Gaelic  song  set  to  it.  Its 
name  there,  I think,  is  Oran  Gaoil,  and  a fine 
air  it  is.  Do  ask  honest  Allan,  or  the  Rev. 
Gaelic  Parson  about  these  matters. 


306 


LETTERS. 


No.  XXXIV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

August , 1793. 

Mv  Dear  Sir, 

Let  me  in  this  ae  night,  I will  consider.  I 
am  glad  that  you  are  pleased  with  my  song, 
Had  la  cave,  &c.,  as  I liked  it  myself. 

I walked  out  yesterday  evening  with  a vo- 
lume of  the  Museum  in  my  hand  ; when  turn- 
ing up  Allan  Water,  “ What  numbers  shall  the 
muse  repeat,”  &c. , as  the  words  appeared  to 
me  rather  unworthy  of  so  fine  an  air,  and  recol- 
lecting that  it  is  on  your  list.  I sat  and  raved 
under  the  shade  of  an  old  thorn,  till  I wrote  one 
to  suit  the  measure.  I may  be  wrong;  but  I 
think  it  not  in  my  worst  style.  You  must 
know,  that  in  Ramsay’s  Tea-Table,  where  the 
modern  song  first  appeared,  the  ancient  name 
of  the  tune,  Allan  says,  is  Allan  Water,  or, 
My  love  Annie' $ very  Bonnie.  This  last  has 
certainly  been  a line  of  the  original  song  ; so  I 
took  up  the  idea,  and,  as  you  will  see,  have  in- 
troduced the  line  in  its  place,  which  I presume 
it  formerly  occupied  ; though  I likewise  give 
you  a chusing  line,  if  it  should  not  hit  the  cut 
of  your  fancy. 

By  Allan  stream  I chanced  to  rove, 

While  Phcebus  sunk  beyond  Benleddi.* * * 

See  Poems,  p.  69. 

Bravo ! say  I : it  is  a good  song.  Should 
you  think  so  too  (not  else,)  you  can  set  the  mu- 
sic to  it,  and  let  the  other  follow  as  English 
verses. 

Autumn  is  my  propitious  season.  I make 
more  verses  in  it  than  all  the  year  else. 

God  bless  you ! 


No.  XXXV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

August,  1793. 

Is  Whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  Lad,  one 
of  your  airs  ; I admire  it  much  ; and  yesterday 
I set  the  following  verses  to  it.  Urbani,  whom 
I have  met  w'ith  here,  begged  them  of  me,  as 
he  admires  the  air  much  : but  as  I understand 
that  he  looks  with  rather  an  evil  eye  on  your 
work,  I did  not  choose  to  comply.  However, 
if  the  song  does  not  suit  your  taste,  I may  pos- 
sibly send  it  him.  The  set  of  the  air  which  I 
had  in  my  eye  is  in  Johnson’s  Museum, 

O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad,f 
O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

See  Poems,  p.  69. 


Another  favorite  air  of  mine,  is,  The  Muckin 
o*  Geordie's  Byre,  when  sung  slow  with  expres- 
sion ; I have  wished  that  it  had  had  better 

* A mountain,  west  of  Strath-AUan,  3,000  feet 
high.  R B. 

f In  some  of  the  MSS.,  the  four  first  lines  run  thus: 
O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  thee,  my  jo, 

O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  thee,  my  jo; 

Tho'  father  and  mother,  and  a’  should  say  no, 

O whistle,  and  1*11  come  to  thee,  my  jo. 

See  also  Letter ; No.  LXXVII. 


poetry;  that  I have  endeavored  to  supply  as 
follows : 

Adown  winding  Nith  I did  wander,* 

To  mark  the  sweet  flowers  as  they  spring. 

See  Poems , p.  69. 

Mr.  Clarke  begs  you  to  give  Miss  Phillis  a 
corner  in  your  book,  as  she  is  a particular  flame 
of  his.  She  is  a Miss  P.  M.,  sister  to  Bonnie 
Jean.  They  are  both  pupils  of  his.  You  shall 
hear  from  me  the  very  first  grist  I get  from  my 
rhyming-mill. 


No.  XXXVI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

August,  1793. 

That  tune,  Cauld  Kail,  is  such  a favorite  of 
yours,  that  I once  more  roved  out  yesterday 
for  a gloamin-shut  at  the  muses ;+  when  the 
muse  that  presides  o’er  the  shores  of  Nith,  or 
rather,  my  old  inspiring,  dearest  nymph,  Coila, 
whispered  me  the  following.  I have  two  rea- 
sons lor  thinking  that  it  was  my  early,  sweet, 
simple  inspirer  that  was  by  my  elbow,  “smooth 
gliding  without  step,”  and  pouring  the  song  on 
my  glowing  fancy.  In  the  first  place,  since  I 
left  Coila’s  native  haunts,  not  a lragment  of  a 
poet  has  arisen  to  cheer  her  solitary  musings, 
by  catching  inspiration  from  her;  sol  more 
than  suspect  that  she  has  followed  me  hither,  or 
at  least  makes  me  occasional  visits:  secondly, 
the  last  stanza  of  this  song  I send  you,  is  the 
very  words  that  Coila  taught  me  many  years 
ago,  and  which  I set  to  an  old  Scots  reel  in 
Johnson’s  Museum. 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  bieast, 

And  pledge  we  ne’er  shall  sunder. 

See  Poems,  p.  69. 

If  you  think  the  above  will  suit  your  idea  of 
your  favorite  air,  I shall  be  highly  pleased. 
The  last  time  I came  o'er  the  Moor,  I cannot 
meddle  with,  as  to  mending  it ; and  the  musical 
world  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to  Ram- 
say’s words,  that  a different  song,  though  posi- 
tively superior,  would  not  be  so  well  received. 
I am  not  fond  of  choruses  to  songs,  so  I have 
not  made  one  lor  the  foregoing. 


No.  XXXVII. 

TOTHE  SAME. 

August,  1793. 
DAINTY  DAVIE. t 

Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi*  flowers, 

To  deck  her  gay,  green  spreading  bowers. 

See  Poems,  p.  69. 

So  much  for  Davie.  The  chorus,  you  know, 
is  to  the  low  part  of  the  tune.  See  Clarke’s 
set  of  it  in  the  Museum. 

N.  B.  Jn  the  Museum,  they  have  drawled 
out  the  tune  to  twelve  lines  of  poetry,  which 
is  ****  nonsense.  Four  lines  of  song,  and  four 
of  chorus  is  the  way. 

* This  song,  certainly  beautiful,  would  appear  to 
more  advantage  without  the  chorus  ; as  is  indeed  the 
case  with  several  other  songs  of  onr  author.  E. 

j Gloainin — twilight;  probably  from  glooming.  A 
beautiful  poetical  word,  which  ought  to  be  adopted 
in  England.  A gloaviin  shot.  a twilight  interview. 

J Dainty  Davie  is  the  title  of  an  old  Scotch  song, 
from  which  Burns  has  taken  nothing  but  the  title  and 
the  measure.  E. 


LETT 

No.  XXXVIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  1st  Sept.,  1793. 

My  Dear  Sir, 

Since  writing  you  last,  I have  received  half  a 
dozen  songs,  wish  which  I am  delighted  beyond 
expression.  The  humor  and  fancy  of  Whistle, 
and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  Lad.  will  render  it  nearly 
as  great  a favoiite  as  Duncan  Gray.  Come,  let 
me  take  thee  to  my  breast  Adovm  winding  Nilh, 
and  By  Allan  Stream,  &e.,  are  full  of  imagina- 
tion and  feeling,  and  sweetly  suit  the  airs  for 
which  they  are  intended.  Had  1 a Cave  oji 
some  wild  distant  shore . is  a striking  and  affect- 
ing composition.  Our  friend,  to  whose  story  it 
refers,  read  it  with  a swelling  heart,  I assure 
you.  The  union  we  are  now  forming,  I think, 
can  never  he  broken  ; these  songs  of  yours  will 
descend  with  the  music  to  the  latest  posterity, 
and  will  be  fondly  cherished  so  long  as  genius, 
taste,  and  sensibility  exist  in  our  island. 

While  the  muse  seems  so  propitious,  I think 
it  right  to  enclose  a list  of  all  the  favors  I have  to 
ask  of  her — no  fewer  than  twenty  and  three  ! I 
have  burdened  the  pleasant  Peter  with  as  many 
as  it  is  probable  he  will  attend  to;  most  of  the 
remaining  airs  would  puzzle  the  English  poet 
not  a little;  they  are  of  that  peculiar  measure 
and  ry thin,  that  they  must  be  familiar  to  him 
who  write  for  them. 


No.  XXXIX. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Sept.,  1793. 

You  may  readily  trust,  my  dear  Sir,  that  any 
exertion  in  my  power  is  heartily  at  your  service. 
But  one  thing  I must  hint  to  you;  the  very 
name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  of  great  service  to  your 
publication,  so  get  a verse  from  him  now  and 
then;  though  I have  no  objection,  as  well  as  I 
can.  to  bear  the  burden  of  the  business. 

You  know  that  my  pretensions  to  musical 
taste  are  merely  a few  of  nature’s  instincts,  un- 
taught and  untutored  by  art.  For  this  reason, 
many  musical  compositions,  particularly  where 
much  of  the  merit  lies  in  counterpoint,  however 
they  may  transport  and  ravish  the  ears  of  you 
connoisseurs,  affect  my  simple  lug  no  otherwise 
than  merely  as  melodious  din.  On  the  other 
hand,  by  way  of  amends,  I am  delighted  with 
many  little  melodies,  which  the  learned  musi- 
cian despises  as  silly  and  insipid.  1 do  not 
know  whether  the  old  air,  Hey  tuttie  taiftie, 
may  rank  among  this  number:  but  well  I 
know  that,  with  Frazer’s  hautboy,  it  has  often 
filled  my  eyes  with  tears.  There  is  a tradition, 
which  I have  met  with  in  many  places  of  Scot- 
land, that  it  was  Robert  Bruce’s  march  at  the 
battle  of  Bannockburn.  This  thought,  in  my 
solitary  wanderings,  warmed  me  to  a pitch  of  i 
enthusiasm  on  the  theme  of  Liberty  and  Inde- 
pendence. which  I threw  into  a kind  of  Scottish 
ode.  fitted  to  the  air,  that  one  might  suppose  to 
be  the  gallant  Royal  Scot’s  address  to  his  he- 
roic followers  on  that  eventful  morning.  * 

* Here  followed  Bruce’s  address,  as  given  in  the 
Poems,  p.  70. 

This  noble  strain  was  conceived  by  our  poet  dur- 
ing a storm  among  the  wilds  of  Glen-Ken  in  Gallo- 
way. 


ERS.  307 

So  may  God  ever  defend  the  cause  of  truth 
and  Liberty,  as  he  did  that  day  ! — Amen. 

P.  S.  I showed  the  air  to  Urbani,  who  was 
highly  pleased  with  it,  and  begged  me  to  make 
soft  verses  for  it  ; but  I had  no  idea  of  giving 
myself  any  trouble  on  the  subject,  till  the  acci- 
dental recollection  of  that  glorious  struggle  for 
freedom,  associated  with  the  glowing  ideas 
of  some  other  struggles  of  the  same  nature,  not 
quite  so  ancient,  roused  my  rhyming  mania. 
Clarke’s  set  of  the  tune,  with  his  bass,  you 
will  find  in  the  Museum  ; though  I am  afraid 
that  the  air  is  not  what  will  entitle  it  to  a place 
in  your  elegant  selection. 


No.  XL. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

September,  1793. 

I dare  say,  my  dear  Sir,  that  you  will  begin 
to  think  my  correspondence  is  persecution.  No 
matter,  I can’t  help  it ; a ballad  is  my  hobby- 
horse ; which  though  otherwise  a simple  sort 
of  harmless  idiotical  beast  enough,  has  yet  this 
blessed  headstrong  property,  that  when  once  it 
has  fairly  made  off  with  a hapless  wight,  it  gets 
so  enamoured  with  the  tinkle-gin-gle,  tinkle- 
gingle,  of  its  own  bells,  that  it  is  sure  to  run 
poor  pilgarlic,  the  bedlam-jockey,  quite  beyond 
any  useful  point  or  post  in  the  common  race  of 
man. 

The  following  song  I have  composed  for 
Oran  Gaoil,  the  Highland  air  that  you  tell  me 
in  your  last,  you  have  resolved  to  give  a place  to 
in  your  book.  I have  this  moment  finished  the 
song,  so  you  have  it  glowing  from  the  mint.  If 
it  suit  you,  well ! — if  not,  Mis  also  well ! 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrives  ; 

Thou  goest,  thou  darling  of  my  heart ! 

i See  Poems,  p.  70. 


No.  XLI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  5lh  September,  1793. 

I believe  it  is  generally  allowed  that  the 
greatest  modesty  is  the  sure  attendant  of  the 
greatest  merit.  While  you  are  sending  me  ver- 
ses that  even  Shakspeare  might  be  proud  to 
own,  you  speak  of  them  as  if  they  were  ordi- 
nary productions!  Your  heroic  ode  is  to  me 
the  noblest  composition  of  the  kind  in  the  Scot- 
tish language.  I happened  to  dine  yesterday 
with  a party  of  our  friends,  to  whom  I read  it. 

! They  were  all  charmed  with  it;  entreated  me 
to  find  out  a suitable  air  for  it,  and  reprobated 
the  idea  of  giving  it  a tune  so  totally  devoid  of 
interest  or  grandeur  a9  Hey  tuttie  taittie.  As- 
suredly your  partiality  for  this  tune  must  arise 
from  the  ideas  associated  in  your  mind  by  the 
tradition  concerning  it;  for  I never  heard  any 
person,  and  I have  conversed  again  and  again, 
with  the  greatest  enthusiasts  for  Scottish  airs,  I 
say  I never  heard  any  one  speak  of  it  as  worthy 
of  notice. 


LETTERS. 


308 


I have  been  running  over  the  whole  hundred 
airs,  of  which  I lately  sent  you  the  list ; and  I 
think  Lewie  Gordon,  is  most  happily  adapted  to 
your  ode  ; at  least  with  a very  siight  variation 
of  the  fourth  line,  which  1 shall  presently  sub- 
mit to  you.  There  is  in  Lewie  Gordon  more  of 
the  grand  than  the  plaintive,  particularly  when 
it  is  sung  with  a degree  of  spirit  which  your 
words  would  oblige  the  singer  to  give  it.  I 
would  have  no  scruple  about  substituting  your 
ode  in  the  room  of  Lewie  Gordon , which  has 
neither  the  interest,  the  grandeur,  nor  the  poe- 
try that  characterize  your  verses.  Now  the  j 
variation  I have  to  suggest  upon  the  last  line  1 
of  each  verse,  the  only  line  too  short  for  the  air, 
is  as  follows  : 


Verse  l sty 
2d, 
2d, 
Alh, 
5ih, 
( kh , 


Or  to  glorious  victorie. 

Chains — chains  and  slavcrie. 
Let  him,  let  hint  turn  and  the. 
Let  him  bravely  follow  me. 

But  they  shall,  they  shall  be  free. 
Let  us,  let  us  do  or  die  ! 


If  you  connect  each  line  of  your  own  verse, 
I do  not  think  you  will  find  that  either  the  sen- 
timent or  the  expression  loses  any  of  its  ener- 
gy. The  only  line  which  I dislike  in  the 
whole  of  the  song  is,  “ Welcome  to  your  gory 
bed.”  Would  not  another  word  be  preferable 
to  welcome  ? In  your  next  1 will  expect  to  be 
informed  whether  you  agree  to  what  1 have 
proposed.  The  little  alterations  I submit  with 
the  greatest  deference. 

The  beauty  of  the  verses  you  have  made 
for  Oran  Gaoil  will  ensure  celebrity  to  the 
air. 


No.  XLII. 


MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

I have  received  your  list,  my  dear  Sir,  and 
here  go  my  observations  on  if.* 

Down  the  burn  Davie.  I have  this  moment 
tried  an  alteration,  leaving  out  the  last  half  of 
the  third  stanza,  and  the  first  half  of  the  last 
stanza,  thus  : 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 

And  thro’  the  flowery  dale  ; 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  love  was  ay  the  tale. 

With  “ Mary,  when  shall  we  return, 

Sic  pleasure  lo  renew  ?” 

Quoth  Mary,  “ I ove,  I like  the  burn, 

And  ay  shall  follow  you.”f 

Thro 1 the  wood  laddie. — I am  decidedly  of 
opinion  that  both  in  this,  and  There'll  never  be 
peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame,  the  second  or  high 
part  of  the  tune,  being  a repetition  of  the  first 
part  an  octave  higher,  is  only  for  instrumental 
music,  one  would  be  much  better  omitted  in 
singing. 

* Mr.  Thomson’s  list  of  songs  for  his  publication. 
In  his  remarks,  the  Bard  proc  eeds  in  order,  and  goes 
through  the  whole  ; but  on  many  of  them  he  mere- 
ly signifies  bis  approbation.  All  his  remarks  of  any 
importance  are  presented  to  the  reader. 

t This  alteration  Mr.  Thomson  lias  adopted  (or  at 
least  intended  to  adopt)  instead  of  the  last  stanza 
of  the  original  song,  which  is  objectionable,  in  point 
of  delicacy.  E. 


Cowden  knowes.  Remember  in  your  index 
that  the  song  in  pure  English  to  this  tune,  be- 
ginning, 

“ When  summer  comes,  the  swains  on  Tweed,” 

is  the  production  of  Crawford.  Robert  w'as  his 
Christian  name. 

Laddie  lie  near  me,  must  lie  by  me,  for  some 
time.  1 do  not  know  the  air  ; and  until  I am 
complete  master  of  a tune,  in  my  own  singing 
(such  as  it  is,)  I can  never  compose  for  it.  My 
way  is  : I consider  the  poetic  sentiment  corres- 
pondent to  my  idea  of  the  musical  expression  ; 
then  choose  my  theme ; begin  one  stanza ; 
when  that  is  composed,  which  is  generally  the 
most  difficult  part  of  the  business,  I walk  out. 
sit  down  now  and  then,  look  out  for  objects  in 
nature  around  me  that  are  in  unison  and  har- 
mony wi(h  the  cogitations  of  my  fancy,  and 
workings  of  my  bosom  ; humming  every  now 
and  then  the  air,  with  the  verses  I have  framed. 
When  I feel  my  muse  beginning  to  jade,  I re- 
tire to  the  solitary  fire  side  of  my  study,  and 
there  commit  my  effusions  to  paper;  swinging 
at  intervals  on  the  hind  legs  of  my  elbow  chair, 
by  way  of  calling  forth  my  own  cri  ical  stric- 
tures, as  my  pen  goes  on.  Seriously,  this,  at 
home,  is  almost  invariably  my  way. 

What  cursed  egotism  ! 

Gill  Morice,  1 am  for  leaving  out.  It  is  a 
plaguy  length  ; the  air  itself  is  never  sung;  and 
its  place  can  well  be  supplied  by  one  or  two 
songs  for  fine  airs  that  are  not  in  your  list.  For 
instance,  Cragieburn-wood  and  Roy's  Wife. 
The  first,  beside  its  intrinsic  merit,  has  novelty; 
and  the  last  has  high  merit,  as  well  as  great 
celebrity.  I have  the  original  w ords  of  a song 
for  the  last  air,  in  the  hand-writing  of  the  lady 
who  composed  it ; and  they  are  superior  to  any 
ediiion  of  the  song  which  the  public  has  yet 
seen.* 

Highland  Laddie.  The  old  set  will  please  a 
mere  Scotch  ear  best;  and  the  new  an  Italian- 
ized one.  There  is  a third,  and  what  Oswald 
calls  the  old  Highland  Laddie,  which  pleases 
more  than  either  of  them.  It  is  sometimes 
called  Ginglan  Johnnie,  it  being  the  air  of  an 
old  humorous  tawdry  song  of  that  name.  You 
will  find  it  in  the  Museum,  I hae  been  at 
Crookieden,  &c.  I would  advise  you,  in  this 
musical  quandary,  to  offer  up  your  prayers  to 
the  muses  for  inspiring  direction  ; and  in  the 
mean  time,  waiting  for  this  direction,  bestow 
a libation  to  Bacchus ; and  there  is  no  doubt 
but  you  will  hit  on  a judicious  choice.  Proba- 
tion Est. 

Auld  Sir  Simon,  I must  beg  leave  to  leave 
out,  and  put  in  its  place  The  Quaker's  Wife. 

Blithe  hae  1 been  o'er  the  Hill,  is  one  of  the 
finest  songs  ever  I made  in  my  life  ; and  be- 
sides, is  composed  on  a young  lady,  positively 
the  most  beautiful,  lovely  woman  in  the  world. 
As  I purpose  giving  you  the  names  and  desig- 
nations of  all  my  heroines,  to  appear  in  some 
future  edition  of  your  w'ork,  perhaps  half  a cen- 
tury hence,  you  must  certainly  include  The 
bonniest  J^nss  in  a'  the  world,  in  your  collection. 

Daintie  Davie,  I have  heard  sung,  nineteen 
thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  times, 
and  always  with  the  chorus  to  the  Ionv  part  of 

* This  snn<r,  so  rn'ir.h  admired  by  our  Bard,  wiil  be 
' found  at  the  bottom  of  p.  324.  E. 


LETTERS. 


309 


the  tune;  and  nothing  has  surprised  me  so 
much  as  your  opinion  on  this  subject.  If  it  will 
not  suit  as  I proposed,  we  will  lay  two  of  the 
stanzas  together,  and  then  make  the  chorus 
follow. 

Fee  him  Father — I enclose  you  Frazer’s  set 
of  this  tune  when  he  plays  it  slow;  in  fact,  he 
makes  it  the  language  of  despair.  I shall  here 
give  you  two  stanzas  in  that  style,  merely  to 
try  if  it  will  be  any  improvement.  Were  it 
possible,  in  singing,  to  give  it  half  the  pathos 
which  Frazer  gives  it  in  playing,  it  would  make 
an  admirably  paiheiic  song.  I do  not  give  these 
verses  for  any  merit  they  have.  1 composed 
them  at  the  time  in  which  Fatie  Allan' s mither 
died,  that  was  about  the  back  o'  midnight  ; and 
by  the  lee-side  of  a bowl  of  punch,  which  had 
overset  every  mortal  in  company,  except  the 
hautbois  and  the  muse. 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  thou  hast  left  me  ever. 
Thou  hast  left  me  ever.  Jamie,  thou  hast  left  me  ever. 

See  Poems,  p.  70. 

Jockey  and  Jennie,  1 would  discard,  and  in 
its  place  would  put  There's  nae  luck  about  the 
house,  which  has  a very  pleasant  air,  and  which 
is  positively  the  finest  love  ballad  in  that  style 
in  the  Scottish,  or  perhaps  any  other  language. 
When  she  came  ben  she  babbit,  us  an  air,  is  more 
beautiful  titan  either,  and,  in  the  andante  way. 
would  unite  with  a charming  sentimental 
ballad. 

Suw  ye  my  Father — is  one  of  my  greatest  fa- 
vorites. The  evening  before  last,  1 wandered 
out,  and  began  a lender  song,  in  what  I think 
is  its  native  style.  I mint  piemise,  that  the  old 
way  and  the  way  to  give  most  effect,  is  to  have 
no  stati  ng  not-,  as  the  fiddlers  ca'.l  it,  but  to 
burst  at  once  into  the  pathos.  Every  country 
girl  sings — Saw  ye  my  lather,  &c. 

My  song  is  hut  just  begun,  and  I should  like 
before  I proceeded,  to  know  your  opinion  of  it. 
I have  sprinkled  it  with  the  Scottish  d.a'ect, 
but  it  may  easily  be  turned  into  correct  Eng- 
lish,* 


Todlin  Hame.  Urbani  mentioned  an  idea  of 
his.  which  has  long  been  mine;  that  this  air  is 
highly  susceptible  of  pathos;  accordingly,  you 
will  soon  hear  him  at  your  concert  fry  it  to  a 
song  of  mine  in  the  Museum  ; Ye  banks  and 
braes  o'  bonnie  Doon. 

One  song  more,  and  I have  done  : Auld  lung 
syne.  The  air  is  but  mediocre  ; hut  the  follow- 
ing song,  the  old  song  of  the  olden  times,  and 
which  has  never  been  in  print,  nor  even  in 
manuscript,  until  I took  it  down  from  an  old 
man’s  singing,  is  enough  to  recommend  any 
air.t 

AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  he  forgot. 

And  never  brought  to  min’? 

See  Poems , p.  70. 

Now,  T suppose  I have  fired  your  patience 
fairly.  You  must,  after  all  is  over,  have  a num- 
ber of  ballads,  properly  so  called.  Gill  M or  ice, 
Tranent  Muir,  M‘  P her  son's  Farewell  Battle 

* This  song  begins, — 

Where  are  the  joys  I hae  met  in  the  morning.” 

E. 

t This  song  of  the  olden  time  is  excellent.  It  is 
worthy  of  our  hard. 


of  Sheriff  Muir,  or,  We  ran  and  they  ran,  (I 
know  the  author  of  this  charming  ballad,  and 
his  history),  Hardiknute,  Barbara  Allan,  (1  can 
furnish  a finer  set  of  this  tune  than  any  that  has 
yet  appeared,)  and  besides,  do  you  know  that  I 
really  have  the  old  tune  to  which  The  Cherry 
and  the  Slae  was  sung  ; and  which  is  mentioned 
as  a well  known  air  in  Scotland’s  Complaint,  a 
book  published  before  poor  Mary’s  days.  It 
was  then  called  The  Banks  o'  Helicon  ; an  old 
poem  which  Pinkerton  has  brought  to  light. 
You  will  see  all  this  in  Tytler’s  History  of 
Scottish  Music.  The  tune,  to  a learned  ear, 
may  have  no  great  merit ; but  it  is  a great  cu- 
riosity. I have  a good  many  original  things  of 
this  kind. 


No.  XLIII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

September,  1793. 

I am  happy,  my  dear  Sir,  that  my  ode  pleases 
you  so  much.  Your  idea,  “honor’s  bed,”  is, 
though  a beautiful,  a hackneyed  idea  ; so,  if 
you  please,  we  will  let  the  line  stand  as  it  is. 
1 have  altered  the  song  as  follows: 

BANNOCK-BURN. 

ROBERT  BRUCE’S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 

Scots,  wham  Bkuce  has  often  led. 

See  Poems,  p.  70. 

N.  B.  I have  borrowed  the  last  stanza  from 
the  common  stall  edition  of  Wallace. 

“A  false  usurper  sinks  in  every  foe, 

And  liberty  returns  with  every  blow.” 

A couplet  worthy  of  Homer.  Yesterday  you 
had  enough  of  my  correspondence.  The  post 
goes,  and  my  head  aches  miserably.  One  com- 
fort ! — I suffer  so  much,  just  now,  in  this  world, 
for  last  night’s  joviality,  that  1 shall  escape  scot- 
free  for  it  in  the  world  to  come. — Amen. 


No.  XLIV. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

12th  September,  1793. 

A thousand  thanks  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for 
your  observations  on  the  list  of  my  songs.  I 
am  happy  to  find  your  ideas  so  much  in  unison 
with  my  own,  respecting  the  generality  of  the 
airs,  as  well  as  the  verses.  About  some  of  them 
we  differ,  but  there  is  no  disputing  about  hob- 
by-horses. I shall  not  fail  to  profit  by  the  re- 
marks you  make;  and  to  re-consider  the  whole 
with  attention. 

Dainty  Davy,  must  he  sung  two  stanzas  to- 
gether, and  then  the  chorus:  ’tis  the  proper 
way.  1 agree  with  you  that  there  may  be 
something  of  pathos,  or  tenderness  at  least,  in 
the  air  of  Fee  him  Father,  when  performed  with 
feeling  : hut  a tender  cast  may  be  given  almost 
to  any  lively  air,  if  you  sing  it  very  slowly,  ex- 
pressively, and  wi'h  serious  words.  I am, 
however,  clearly  and  invariably  for  retaining 
the  cheerful  tunes  joined  to  their  own  humor- 
ous verses,  wherever  the  verses  are  passable. 


310 


LETTERS 


But  the  sweet  song  for  Fee  him  Father , which 
you  began  about  the  back  ot  midnight,  I will 
publish  as  an  additional  one,  Mr.  James  Bal- 
iour,  the  king  ot  good  fellows,  and  the  best 
singer  of  the  lively  Scottish  ballads  that  ever 
existed,  has  charmed  thousands  of  companies 
with  Fee  him  Father,  and  with  Todlin  Hame, 
also,  to  the  old  words,  which  never  should  be 
disunited  from  either  of  these  airs. — Some  Baer 
chanals  I would  wish  to  discard.  Fie,  lets  a'  to 
the  Bridal,  for  instance,  is  so  coarse  and  vulgar, 
that  I think  it  fit  only  to  be  sung  in  a company 
of  drunken  colliers  ; and  Saw  ye  my  Father, 
appears  to  me  both  indelicate  and  silly. 

One  word  more  with  regard  to  your  heroic 
ode.  I think,  with  great  deference  to  the  poet, 
that  a prudent  general  would  avoid  saying  any 
thing  to  his  soldiers  which  would  tend  to  make 
death  more  frightful  than  it  is.  Gory  presents 
a disagreeable  image  to  the  mind,  and  to  tell 
them,  “ Welcome  to  your  gory  bed,”  seems 
rather  a discouraging  address,  notwithstanding 
the  alternative  which  follows.  1 have  shown 
the  song  to  three  friends  of  excellent  taste,  and 
each  of  them  objected  to  this  line,  which  em- 
boldens me  to  use  the  freedom  of  bringing  it 
again  under  your  notice,  i would  suggest, — 

“ Now  prppare  for  honor’s  bed, 

Or  for  glorious  victorie.” 


No.  XLV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

“ Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree  ?” 
My  ode  pleases  me  so  much  that  I cannot  alter 
it.  Your  proposed  alterations  would,  in  my 
opinion,  make  it  tame.  1 am  exceedingly  ob- 
liged to  you  for  putting  me  on  reconsidering  it, 
as  I think  I have  much  improved  it.  Instead 
of  “soger  I hero?”  I will  have  it,  “Caledo- 
nian ! on  wi’  me  !” 

1 have  scrutinized  it  over  and  over ; and  to 
the  world,  some  way  or  other,  it  shall  go  as  it 
is.  At  the  same  time,  it  will  not  in  the  least 
hurt  me  should  you  leave  it  out  altogether,  and 
adhere  to  your  first  intention  of  adopting  Lo- 
gan’s verses.* 

* Mr.  Thomson  has  very  properly  adopted  thi* 
song  (if  it  may  he  so  called.)  as  the  hard  presented  it 
lo  him.  fie  has  attached  it  to  the  air  of  Lewie  Oor- 
don,  and  perhaps  among  the  existing  airs  he  could 
not  find  a better  ; but  the  poetry  is  suited  to  si  much 
higher  strain  of  mus  e and  may  employ  the  genius 
of  some  Scottish  Handel,  if  any  such  should  in  fix- 
ture arise.  The  reader  will  have  observed,  that 
Burns  adopted  the  alterations  proposed  by  his  friend 
and  correspondent  in  former  instances,  with  great 
readiness:  perhaps,  indeed,  on  all  indifferent  occa- 
sions. In  the  present  instance,  however,  he  rejected 
them  though  repeatedly  urged,  with  determined  re- 
solution. With  every  respect  for  the  judgment  of 
Mr.  Thomson  and  his  friends,  we  may  he  satisfied 
that  he  did  so.  lie  who,  ;n  preparing  for  an  engage- 
ment, attempts  to  withdraw  his  imagination  fmrri 
images  of  death,  will  probably  have  but  imperfect 
success,  and  is  not  fitted  to  stand  in  the  ranks  of 
battle,  where  the  liberties  of  a kingdom  ere  at  issue. 
Of  such  men  the  conquerors  at  Bannockburn  were 
not  composed.  Bruce's  tmops  were  inured  to  war. 
and  familiar  vviih  all  its  sufferings  and  dangers. 
On  the  eve  of  that  memorable  day.  the  r spirits 
were,  without  doubt,  wound  up  to  a pitch  of  enthu- 
siasm. suited  to  the  ocrasion  : a pitch  of  enthusiasm 
at  which  danger  becomes  attractive,  and  the  most 


I have  finished  my  song  to  Saw  ye  my  Father, 
and  iu  English,  as  you  will  see.  That  there  is 
a syllable  too  much  for  the  express-on  of  the 
air  is  true  ; hut  allow  me  to  say,  that  the  mere 
dividing  of  a dotted  crotchet  into  a crotchet  and 
a quaver,  is  not  a great  matter;  however,  in 
that  I have  no  pretensions  to  cope  in  judgment 
with  you.  Of  the  poetry  I speak  with  confi- 
dence ; but  the  music  is  a business  where  1 hint 
my  ideas  with  the  utmost  diflidence. 

The  old  verses  have  merit,  though  unequal, 
and  are  popular : my  advice  is.  lo  set  the  air  to 
the  old  words,  and  let  mine  follow  as  English 
verses.  Here  they  are — 

FAIR  JENNY. 

See  p.  308. 

Tune—“  Saw  ye  my  Father.” 

Where  are  the  joys  I have  met  in  the  morning, 

That  danc'd  to  the  lark’s  early  song? 

See  Poems,  p.  70. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir  ! the  post  goes,  so  I 
shall  defer  some  other  remarks  until  more 
leisure. 


No.  XLVI. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

September , 1793. 

I have  been  turning  over  some  volumes  of 
songs  to  find  verses  whose  measures  would 
suit  the  airs,  for  which  you  have  allotted  me  to 
find  English  songs. 

For  Muirland  Willie,  you  have,  in  Ramsay’s 
Tea-Table,  an  excellent  song,  beginning,  “Ah! 
why  those  tears  in  Nelly’s  eves.'’  As  for  The 
Collier's  Dodder,  take  the  following  old  Bac- 
chanal. 

Deluded  Swain  the  pleasure 
The  fickle  Fair  can  give  thee. 

See  Poems,  p.  71. 

The  faulty  line  in  Logan  Water,  I mend  thus: 
“ How  can  votir  flinty  hearts  enjoy 
The  widow’s  tears,  the  orphan’s  cry  ?” 

terrific  forms  of  death  are  no  longer  terrible.  Such 
a strain  of  sentiment,  this  heroic  •*  welcome”  may 
be  supposed  well  calculated  to  elevate — to  rarse 
their  hearts  high  above  fear,  and  to  nerve  tlie.r  arms 
to  the  utmost  pitch  o:  mortal  excition.  Tlmse  obser- 
vations might  be  illustrated  and  suppoited  i y a re- 
ference to  the  martial  poetry  of  all  nations,  from  the 
spirit-stirring  strains  of  Tvrtteus  to  the  war-song  of 
General  Wolfe.  Mr.  Thomson’s  obse^va* ion,  that. 

Welcome  lo  your  gory  bed,  is  a discom aging  ad- 
dress ’'  seems  not  sttti  ciently  considered.  Perhaps, 
ind'  ed,  it  may  be  admitted,  that  the  term  gory  is 
somewhat  ohject  ionable.  not  on  account  of  its  pre- 
senting a frightful,  but  a disagreeable  image  t<»  the 
mind.  But  a great  poet,  littering  his  conceptions  on 
an  interesting  occasion,  seeks  always  to  present  a 
picture  that  is  vivid,  and  is  uniformly  disposed  to 
sacrifice  the  delicacies  of  taste  on  the  altar  of  the 
itimgiriauon.  And  it  is  the  privilege  of  superior  ge- 
nius, by  producing  a new  association,  to  elevate 
expressions  that  were  originally  low.  and  thus  to 
triumph  over  the  deficiencies  of  language.  In  how- 
many  instances  might  this  he  exemplified  from  the 
works  of  our  immortal  Sliakspeate  : 

t!  Who  would  fardels  hear, 

To  groan  and  sweat  under  a weary  life  : — 
When  lie  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a bare  bodkin  /” 

It  were  easy  to  enlarge,  but  to  suggest  such  reflec- 
tions is  probably  sufficient. 


LETTERS. 


311 


The  song  otherwise  will  pass.  As  to  M'Gre- 
goira  Rua  Ruth,  you  will  see  a song  of  mine  to 
it.  with  a set  of  the  air.  superior  to  yours,  in  the 
Museum,  Vol.  ii.  p.  181.  The  song  begins, — 
44  Raving  winds  around  her  blowing.” 

Your  Irish  airs  are  pretty,  but  they  are  down- 
right Irish.  If  they  were  like  the  Bunks  of 
Banna,  for  instance,  though  really  Irish,  yet  in 
the  Scottish  taste,  you  might  adopt  them. 
Since  yon  are  so  fond  of  Irish  music,  what  say 
you  to  twenty-five  of  ihem  in  an  additional 
number?  We  could  easily  find  this  quan'i'y 
of  charming  airs : I will  take  care  that  you  shall 
not  want  songs  ; and  I assure  you  that  you  will 
find  it  the  most  saleable  of  the  whole.  If  you 
do  not  approve  of  Roy's  Wife,  for  the  music’s 
sake,  we  shall  not  insert  it.  Deil.lakthe  Wars, 
is  a charming  song;  so  is.  Saw  ye  my  Peggy. 
There's  na  luck  about  the  House,  well  deserves 
a place.  I cannot  say  that,  O'er  the  Hills  and 
Far  Awa,  strikes  me  as  equal  to  your  selection. 
This  is  no  mine  ain  House,  is  a great  favorite 
air  of  mine  ; and  if  you  will  send  me  your  set 
of  it,  I will  task  my  muse  to  her  highest  effort. 
What  is  your  opinion  of — / hue  laid  a Herrin  in 
Sawt  ? 1 like  it  much.  Your  Jacobite  airs  are 

retry  ; and  there  are  many  others  of  the  same 
ind,  pretty  ; but.  you  have  not  room  for  them. 
You  cannot.  I t Link,  insert  Fie.  let  us  a ' to  the 
Bridal  to  any  other  words  than  its  own. 

What  pleases  me.  as  simple  and  naive,  dis- 
gusts you  as  ludicrous  and  low.  For  this  rea- 
son, Fie,  giememy  Cogie.  Sirs,  Fie.  let  us  a'  to 
the  Bridal,  widt  several  others  of  that  t ast,  are 
to  me  highly  pleasing  ; while,  Saw  ye  my  Fa- 
ther, or  Saw  ye  my  Mother , delights  me  with  its 
descriptive  simple  paihos.  Thus  my  song, — 
Ken  ye  what  Meg  o' the  Mill  has  gotten , pleases 
mysdf  so  much  that  I cannot  try  my  hand  at 
another  song  to  the  air;  so  I shall  not  attempt 
it.  1 know  you  will  laugh  a?  all  th  s:  but, 
11  Ilka  man  wears  his  belt  his  ain  gait.” 


No.  XLVIL 

TO  THE  SAME. 

October,  1793. 

Your  last  letter,  my  dear  Thomson,  was  in- 
deed laden  with  heavy  news.  Alas,  poor  Er- 
skine  !*  The  recollection  that  lie  was  a coadju- 
tor in  your  publication,  has  till  now  scared  me 
from  writing  to  you  or  turning  my  thoughts  on 
composing  for  you 

I am  [(leased  that  you  are  reconciled  to  the 
air  of  the  Quaker's  Wife;  though,  by  the  by, 
an  old  Highland  gentleman,  and  a deep  anti- 
quarian, tells  me  it  is  a Gaelic  air.  and  known 
by  the  name  cf  Ledger 'm  choss.  The  following 
verses  I hope  will  please  you  as  an  English 
song  to  the  air. 

Th’ne  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 

Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy. 

See  roems,  p.  71. 

Your  objection  to  the  English  song  I pro- 
posed for  John  Anderson  my  jo,  is  certainly 
just.  The  following  is  by  an  old  acquaintance 

* The  Honorable  A Erskine,  brother  to  Lord  Kel- 
ly, whose  melancholy  death  Mr.  Thomson  had  com- 
municated iu  an  excellent  letter,  which  he  has  sup- 
pressed. 


of  mine,  and  I think  has  merit.  The  song  was 
never  in  print,  which  I think  is  so  much  in 
your  favor.  The  more  original  good  poetry 
your  collection  contains,  it  certainly  has  so 
much  the  more  met  it. 

SONG. 

BY  GAVIN  TURNBULL. 

O,  condescend,  dear  charming  maid, 

My  wretched  state  lo  view  ; 

A tender  swain  to  love  betray’d, 

And  sad  despair,  by  you. 

While  here,  all  melancholy, 
i\ly  passion  I deplore, 

Ye*,  urged  by  stei  n,  resistless  fate, 

1 love  thee  tno.e  and  more. 

I heard  of  love,  and  with  disdain. 

The  nrcli  it’s  power  denied  ; 

I laugh’d  at  every  lover’s  pain, 

And  mock’d  them  when  they  sigh'd. 

But  how  my  state  is  alter’d! 

Those  happy  days  are  o’er; 

For  all  thy  unrelenting  hate, 

I love  thee  more  and  more. 

O,  yield,  illustrious  beauty,  yield, 

No  longer  let  me  mourn  ; 

And  though  victorious  in  the  field, 

Thy  captive  do  not  scorn. 

Let  generous  pity  warm  thee. 

My  wonted  peace  restore; 

And,  trratefii’,  I shall  bless  thee  still, 

And  love  dice  more  and  more. 


The  following  address  of  Turnbull’s  to  the 
Nigh’ingale,  will  suit  as  an  English  sung  to  the 
air,  There  was  a lass  and  she  was  fair.  By  the 
by,  Turnbull  has  a great  many  songs  in  MS., 
which  l can  command,  if  you  like  his  manner. 
Possibly  as  he  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  1 may 
he  prejudiced  in  his  favor,  but  I like  some  of 
his  pieces  very  much. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

AY  G.  TURNBULL. 

Thou  sweetest  minstrel  of  the  grove. 
That  ever  tried  the  plaimive  strain, 
Awake  thy  tender  tale  of  love, 

And  soothe  a poor  forsaken  swain. 

For  though  the  muses  deign  lo  aid. 

And  teach  him  smoothly  to  complain. 
Yet  Delia,  charming  cruel  tnaid, 

Is  deaf  lo  her  forsaken  swain. 

All  day.  with  fashion’s  gaudy  sons, 

In  sport  she  wanders  o’er  the  plain  ; 
Their  tales  approves,  and  still  she  shuns 
The  notes  of  her  forsaken  swa  n. 
When  evening  shades  obscure  the  sky. 
And  bring  the  solemn  hours  again, 
Begin,  sweet  bird,  thv  melody. 

And  soothe  a poor  forsaken  swain. 


T shall  just  transcribe  another  of  Turnbull’s, 
which  would  go  charmingly  to  Lewie  Gordon. 


LAURA. 

BY  G.  TURNBULL. 

Let  me  wander  where  I will, 

Bv  shady  wood  or  winding  rill. 

Where  the  sweetest  May-born  flowers 
Paint  the  meadows,  deck  the  bowers; 
Where  the  linnet’s  early  song 
Echoes  sweet  tin*  woods  among  : 

Let  me  wander  where  l will, 

Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 


LETTERS. 


n 

•J 


12 


If  at  rosy  dawn  T chase, 

To  indulge  the  smiling  muse  ; 

If  I court  some  cool  retreat, 

To  avoid  tlie  noon-tide  heat  ; 

If  beneath  the  moon’s  pale  ray. 
Through  unfrequented  wilds  I stray  ; 
Let  me  wander  where  I will, 

Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 

When  at  night  the  drowsy  god 
Waves  his  sleep  enamelling  rod, 

And  to  fancy’s  wakeful  eyes 
Bids  celestial  visions  rise  ; 

Wtyle  with  boundless  joy  I rove, 
Thro’  the  fairy-land  of  love  ; 

Let  me  wander  where  I will, 

Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 


The  rest  of  vour  letter  I will  answer  at  some 
other  opportunity. 


No.  XLVIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURN,S. 

7 tli  November,  1793. 

My  Good  Sir, 

After  so  long  a silence,  it  gave  me  peculiar 
pleasure  to  recognize  your  well  known  hand,  for 
I had  begun  to  be  apprehensive  that  all  was  not 
well  with  you.  I am  happy  to  find,  however, 
that  your  silence  did  not  proceed  from  that 
cause,  and  that  you  have  got  among  the  ballads 
once  more. 

1 have  to  thank  you  for  your  English  song  to 
Leiger  'mchoss,  which  I think  extremely  good, 
although  the  colouring  is  warm.  Your  friend 
Mr.  Turnbull’s  songs  have,  doubtless,  consider- 
able merir ; and  as  you  have  the  command  of  his 
manuscripts,  I hope  you  will  find  out  some  that 
wiil  answer,  as  English  songs,  to  the  airs  yet 
unprovided. 


No.  XLIX. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

December,  1793. 

Tell  me  how  you  like  the  following  verses 
to  the  tune  of  Jo  Janet. 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife, 

Nor  longer  idly  rave,  Sir  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  71. 


Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart. 
Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  I 

See  Poems,  p.  86. 


No,  L. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  17 Ih  April,  1794. 
My  Dear  Sir, 

Owing  to  the  distress  of  our  friend  for  the 
loss  of  his  child,  at  the  time  of  his  receiving 
your  admirable  but  melancholy  letter,  1 had 
not  an  opportunity,  till  lately,  of  perusing  it.* 

* A letter  to  Mr.  Cunningham,  No.  CL.  of  the  Gen- 
eral Correspondence. 


How  sorry  T am  to  find  Burns  saying,  “ Canst 
thou  not  minister  to  a mind  diseased  ?”  while 
he  is  delighting  others  from  one  end  of  the  isl- 
and to  the  other.  Like  the  hypochondriac  who 
went  to  consult  a physician  upon  his  case — Go, 
says,  the  doctor,  and  see  the  famous  Carlini, 
who  keeps  all  Paris  in  good  humor.  Alas  ! 
Sir,  replied  the  patient,  I am  that  unhappy  Car- 
lini ! 

Your  plan  for  our  meeting  together  pleases 
me  greatly,  and  I trust  that  by  some  pieans  or 
other  it  will  soon  take  place  ; but  your  Baccha- 
nalian challenge  almost  frightens  me,  for  I am 
a miserable  weak  drinker  ! 

Allan  is  much  gratified  by  your  good  opinion 
of  his  talents.  He  has  just  begun  a sketch 
from  your  Colter's  Saturday  Night,  and  if  it 
pleases  himself  in  the  design,  he  will  probably 
etch  or  engrave  if.  In  subjects  of  the  pastoral 
and  humorous  kind,  he  is  perhaps  unrivalled  by 
any  ariist  living.  He  fails  a little  in  giving 
beauty  and  grace  to  his  females,  and  his  color- 
ing is  sombre,  otherwise  his  paintings  and  draw- 
ings would  be  in  greater  request. 

I like  the  music  of  the  Sutor's  Dochter , and 
will  consider  whether  it  shall  be  added  to  the 
last  volume  ; your  verses  to  it  are  pretty  : but 
your  humorous  English  song,  to  suit  Jo  Janet, 
is  inimitable.  What  think  you  of  the  air. 
Within  a mile  of  Edinburgh  ? it  has  always 
struck  me  as  a modern  imitation,  but  it  is  said 
to  be  Oswald’s,  and  is  so  much  liked,  that  I 
believe  I must  include  it.  The  verses  are  little 
better  than  namby  pamby.  Do  you  consider  it 
worth  a stanza  or  two  ? 


No.  LI. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 


May,  1794. 


My  Dear  Sir, 

I return  you  ihe  plates,  with  which  I am 
highly  pleased ; I would  humbly  propose  in- 
stead of  the  younker  knitting  s'oekings.  to  put 
a stock  and  horn  into  his  hands.  A friend  of 
mine,  who  is  positively  the  ablest  judge  on  the 
subject  I have  ever  met  with,  and  though  an 
unknown,  is  yet  a superior  ariist  with  the  Bu- 
rin, is  quite  charmed  with  Allan’s  manner.  I 
got  him  a peep  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd  ; and 
he  pronounces  Allan  a most  original  artist  of 
great  excellence. 

For  my  part,  I look  on  Mr.  Allan's  chusing 
my  favorite  poem  for  his  subject,  to  be  one  of 
the  highest  compliments  I have  ever  received. 

I am  quite  vexed  at  Pleyel’s  being  cooped  up 
in  France,  as  it  will  put  an  entire  stop  to  our 
work.  Now,  and  for  six  or  seven  months  1 
shall  be  quite  in  song,  as  you  shall  see  by  and  by. 
I got  an  air,  pretty  enough,  composed  by  Lady 
Elizabeth  Heron,  of  Heron,  which  she  calls 
The  Ranks  of  Cree.  Creeisa  beautiful  roman- 
tic stream  ; and  as  her  Ladyship  is  a particular 
friend  of  mine,  I have  written  the  following 
song  to  it. 


BANKS  OF  CREE. 


Here  is  the  den.  amt  here  the  bower , 

All  underneath  the  hitclien  shade. 

See  Poems , p.  71. 


No.  LII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 


LETTERS. 


No.  LV. 


313 


July,  1794. 

Is  there  no  news  yet  of  Plcyei  ? Or  is  your 
work  to  be  at  a dead  stop,  until  the  allies  set 
our  modern  Orpheus  at  liberty  from  the  savage 
thraldom  of  democratic  discords?  Alas  the 
day  ! And  wo  is  me  : That  auspicious  period 

pregnant  with  the  happiness  of  millions.* — 
* *%:  * * * 

I have  presented  a copy  of  your  songs  to  the" 
daughter  of  a much-valued  and  much-honored 
friend  of  mine.  iVlr.  Graham,  of  Fintry.  I 
wrote  on  the  blank  side  of  the  title-page  the 
following  address  to  the  young  lady. 

Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives, 

In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  number-  join’d. 

Sec  Poems , p.  71. 


No.  LIII.  , 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh.  10 th  August,  1794. 
My  Dear  Sir. 

I owe  you  an  apology  for  having  so  long  de- 
layed to  acknowledge  the  favor  of  your  last.  I 
fear  it  will  be  as  you  say,  1 shall  have  no  more 
6ongs  from  Pleyel  till  France  and  we  are 
friends;  but  neverthele.-s,  I am  ve  y desirous  to 
be  prepared  with  t lie  poetry  ; and  as  the  season 
approaches  in  which  your  muse  ot  Coila  visits 
you,  I trust  I shall,  as  formerly,  be  frequently 
gratified  with  the  result  of  your  amorous  and 
tender  interviews  I 


No.  LiV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

30?/t  Avgust,  1794. 

The  last  evening,  as  T was  straying  out,  and 
thinking  of.  O'er  the  hills  and  far  away,  l spun 
the  following  stanzas  for  it ; but  whether  my 
spinning  will  deserve  to  he  laid  up  i.i  store,  like 
the  precious  thread  of  the  silk-worm,  or  brush- 
ed to  the  devil,  like  the  vile  manufacture  of  the 
spider  1 leave,  my  dear  Sir,  to  your  usual  can- 
did criticism.  I was  pleased  with  several  lines 
in  it  at  first  : but  I own  that  now  it  appears 
rather  a flimsy  business. 

This  is  just  a hasty  sketch,  until  I see  wheth- 
er it  be  worth  a critique.  We  have  many  sai- 
lor songs,  but  as  far  as  1 at  present  recollect, 
they  are  mos'ly  the  effusions  of  the  jovial  sai- 
lor, not  the  wailings  of  his  love-lorn  mistress. 
I must  here  make  one  sweet  exception — Sweet 
Annie  frue  the  sea-beach  came.  Now  for  the 
song. 

ON  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 

How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 

When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad  f 

See  Pooms.  p.  72. 

I give  yon  leave  to  abuse  this  song,  but  do  it 
in  the  spirit  of  Christian  meekness. 

* A p rtion  of  (hi-  loM»*r  Ins  been  left  out  for 
reasons  that  w.ll  easily  be  imagined. 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  1 6lh  September,  1794. 
My  Dear  Sir, 

You  have  anticipated  my  opinion  of  On  the 
seas  and  far  away  ; 1 do  not  think  it  one  of 
your  very  happy  produciions,  though  it  certain- 
ly contains  stanzas  that  are  w’orthy  of  all  accep- 
tation. 

The  second  is  the  least  to  my  liking,  partic- 
ularly Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy  !”  Confound 
the  bulleis  ! It  might  perhaps,  be  objected  to 
the  third  verse,  “At  the  starless  midnight 
hour,”  that  it  has  too  much  grandeur  of  ima- 
gery, and  that  greater  simplicity  of  thought 
would  have  better  suited  the  character  of  a sai- 
lor’s sweetheart.  The  tune,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, is  of  the  brisk,  cheerful  kind.  Upon  the 
whole,  therefore,  in  my  humble  opinion,  the 
song  would  be  better  adapted  to  the  tune,  if  it 
consisted  only  of  the  first  and  last  verses  with 
the  choruses. 


No.  LVI. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1794. 

I shall  withdraw  my  On  the  seas  and  far 
away,  altogether : it  is  unequal,  and  unworthy 
the  work.  Making  a poem  is  like  begetting  a 
son  : you  cannot  know  whether  you  have  a 
w'ise  man  or  a fool,  until  you  produce  him  to 
the  world  to  try  him. 

For  that  reason  I send  you  the  offspring  of 
my  brain,  uborlions  and  all : and,  as  such,  pray 
look  over  them,  and  forgive  them,  and  burn* 
them.  1 am  flattered  at  your  adopting  Ca'  the 
yowes  to  the  knowes , as  it  was  owing  to  me  that 
ever  it  saw  the  light.  About  seven  years  ago  I 
was  well  acquainted  with  a worthy  little  fellow 
of  a Clergyman,  a Mr.  Clunie.  who  sung  it 
charmingly  ; and,  at  my  request,  Mr.  Clarke 
took  it  down  from  his  singing.  When  I gave 
it  to  Johnson,  I added  some  stanzas  to  the  song 
and  mended  others,  but  still  it  will  not  do  for 
you.  In  a solitary  stroll  which  1 took  to-day,  I 
tried  my  hand  on  a few  pastoral  iines,  following 
up  the  idea  of  the  chorus,  which  1 would  pre- 
serve. Here  it  is,  with  all  its  crudities  and  im- 
perfections on  its  head. 

CIIOUUS. 

Ca 1 the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 

Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows. 

See  Poems,  p.  72. 

I shall  give  you  my  opinion  of  your  other 
newly  adopted  songs  my  first  scribbling  fit. 

* This  Virgilian  order  of  the  poet  should,  I think, 
be  disobeyed  wiih  respect  to  the  song  in  question, 
the  second  stanza  excepted.  JV"«/e  by  J\lr.  Thomson. 

Doctors  d flVr.  The  objection  to  the  second  stan- 
| za  does  not  strike  '.he  Editor.  E. 


314 


LETTERS. 


No.  LVII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

September,  1794. 

Do  you  know  a blackguard  Irish  song  called 
Onagti s Water-full  l '1  lie  air  is  charming,  and 
I have  often  regretted  the  want  of  decent  ver- 
ses to  it.  It  is  too  much  at  least  for  my  hum- 
ble rustic  muse,  to  expect  that  every  effort  of 
hers  shall  have  merit;  still  I think  that  it  is 
better  to  have  mediocre  verses  to  a favorite  air, 
than  none  at  ail.  On  this  principle  I have  all 
along  proceeded  in  the  Scots  Musical  Museum; 
and  as  that  publication  is  at  its  last  volume,  I 
intend  the  following  song  to  the  air  above-men- 
tioned, lor  that  woik. 

If  it  does  not  suit  you  as  an  editor,  you  may 
be  pleased  to  have  verses  to  it  that  you  can  sing 
before  ladies. 

SHE  SAYS  SHE  LO’ES  ME  BEST  OF  A’. 

Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, 

Her  eye*brovvs  of  a darker  hue, 

See  Poems,  p.  72. 

Not  to  compare  small  things  with  grea’,  my 
taste  in  music  is  like  the  mighty  Frederick  of 
Prussia's  taste  in  painting  ; we  are  told  that  he 
frequently  admired  what  the  connoisseurs  de- 
cried, and  always  without  any  hypocrisy  confes- 
sed his  admiration.  1 am  sens-ible  that  my  taste 
in  music  must  be  inelegant  and  vulgar,  because 
people  of  undisputed  and  cultivated  taste  can 
find  no  metit  in  my  favorite  tunes.  Still  because 
I am  cheaply  pi  a-ed,  is  that  any  reason  why  I 
should  deny  myself  that  pleasure  ? Many  of 
our  strathspeys,  ancient  and  modern,  give  me 
most  exquisite  enjoyment,  where  you  and  other 
judges  would  probably  he  showing  disgust. 
For  instance,  I am  just  now  making  verses  for 
Roth  i emu  rrhie's  Rant,  an  air  which  puts  me  in 
raptures;  and,  in  lact,  unless  I be  pleased  with 
the  tune,  1 never  can  make  verses  to  it.  Here 
I have  Clarke  on  my  side,  who  is  a judge  that  l 
wiil  pit  against,  any  of  you.  Roihiemurchie , he 
says,  is  an  air  both  original  anu  beautiful ; ai  d 
on  his  recommendation  I have  taken  the  first 
part  of  the  tune  for  a chorus,  and  the  fourth 
or  last  part  for  the  song.  I am  but  two  stanzas 
deep  in  the  work,  and  possibly  yon  may  think, 
and  justly,  that  the  poetry  is  as  little  woith 
your  atien  ion  as  the  music.* 

I have  begun  anew-.  Let  me  in  this  ae  night. 
Do  you  think  that  we  ought  to  retain  t he  old 
chorus?  I think  we  must  retain  both  the  oid 
chorus  and  the  first  stanza  of  the  old  song.  I 
do  not  altogether  like  the  third  line  of  the  first 
stanza,  but  cannot  alter  it  to  please  myself.  I 
am  just  three  stanzas  deep  in  it.  Would  you 
have  the  denuument  to  be  successful  or  other- 
wise ? should  she  “ let  hint  in,”  or  not  ? 

Did  you  not  once  propose  The  Sow's  (ail  to 
Gcordie . as  an  air  for  your  work  ? I am  quite 
diverted  with  it ; but  I acknowledge  that  is  no 
mark  of  its  real  excellence.  I once  set  about 
verses  for  it,  which  I meant  to  be  in  the  alter- 
nate way  of  a lover  and  his  mistress  chanting 
together.  1 have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
Mrs.  Thomson's  Christian  name,  and  yours  1 

* In  ttm  original,  follow  lore  two  stanzas  of  a 
song,  beginning  *•  Lassie  wF  the  lint-while  locks.’’ 


am  afraid  is  rather  burlesque  for  sentiment,  else 
1 had  meant  to  have  made  you  the  hero  and  he- 
roine of  the  little  piece. 

How  do  you  like  the  following  epigram, 
which  l wrote  the  other  day  ori  a lovely  young 
girl’s  recovery  from  a fever  ? Doctor  Maxwell 
was  the  physician  who  seemingly  saved  her 
from  the  grave  ; and  to  him  I address  the  fol- 
lowing. 

TO  DR.  MAXWELL, 

ON  MISS  JESSY  STAIG’S  RECOVERY. 

Maxwell,  if  merit  here  you  crave. 

That  meiit  1 deny  : 

You  save  fair  Jessie  from  the  grave  1 — 

An  angel  could  not  ciie. 

God  grant  you  patience  with  this  stupid 
epistle  ! 


No.  LVIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

I perceive  the  sprightly  muse  is  now  attend- 
ant upon  her  favorite  poet,  whose  wood-notes 
wild  are  becoming  as  enchanting  as  ever.  She 
sat/s  she  lo’es  me  best  of  u' , is  one  of  the  pleas- 
antest table-songs  I have  seen,  and  henceforth 
shall  be  mine  when  the  song  is  going  round. 
I’ll  give  Cunningham  a copy;  he  can  more 
powerfully  proclaim  i s merit.  I am  lar  from 
undervaluing  your  taste  lor  the  strathspey  mu- 
sic ; on  the  contrary,  I think  it  highly  anima- 
ting and  agreeable,  and  that  some  of  the  strath- 
speys, when  graced  wi  h such  verses  as  yours, 
will  make  very  pleasing  songs  in  the  same  way 
that  rough  Christians  are  tempered  and  sofiened 
by  lovely  woman  ; without  whom,  you  know, 
they  had  been  brutes. 

I am  clear  for  having  the  Sow's  Tail,  partic- 
| ulariy  as  your  proposed  verses  to  it  are  so  ex- 
tremely promising.  Gcordie,  as  you  observe, 
is  a name  only  fit  for  burlesque  composition. 
Mrs.  Thomson's  name  (Katherine)  is  not  at  all 
poetical.  Retain  Jennie,  therefore,  and  make 
the  other  Jamie,  or  any  other  that  sounds  agree- 
ably. 

Your  Ca 1 the  ewes  is  a precious  Utile  morceau . 
Indeed,  1 am  perfectly  astonished  and  charmed 
with  the  endiess  variety  of  your  ianey.  Here 
let  me  ask  you.  whether  you  never  seriously 
turned  your  thoughts  upon  dramatic  writing  ? 
That  is  a field  worthy  of  your  genius,  in 
which  it  might  shine  forth  in  all  its  splendor. 
One  or  two  successful  pieces  upon  the  London 
stage  would  make  your  fortune.  The  rage  at 
present  is  for  musical  dramas  : few  or  none  of 
titose  which  have  appeared  since  the  Duenna , 
possess  much  poetical  merit : there  is  little  in 
the  conduct  of  the  fable,  or  in  the  dialogue,  to 
interest  the  audience.  They  are  chiefly  vehi- 
cles for  music  and  pageaniry.  I think  you 
nvght  produce  a comic  opera  in  three  acts, 
which  would  live  by  the  poetry,  at  the  same 
time  that  it  would  be  proper  to  take  every  as 
sistanee  from  her  tuneful  sister.  Part  of  the 
songs,  of  course,  would  be  to  our  favorite  Scot- 
tish airs  ; the  rest  might  be  left  to  the  London 
i composer — Storace  for  Drury- lane,  or  Shield 


\ 


LETTERS. 


315 


for  Covent- Garden : both  of  them  very  able  and 
popular  musicians.  1 believe  that  interest  and 
manoeuvring  are  often  necessary  to  have  a 
drama  brought  on  ; so  it  may  be  with  the  nam- 
by  pamby  tribe  of  flowery  scribblers  ; but  were 
you  to  address  Mr.  Sheridan  himself  by  letter, 
and  send  him  a dramatic  piece,  1 am  persuaded 
he  would,  tor  the  honor  of  genius,  give  it  a fair 
and  candid  trial.  Excuse  me  for  obtruding 
these  hints  upon  your  consideration.* 

No.  L1X. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  1 4th  October,  1794. 

The  last  eight  days  have  been  devo'ed  to  the 
re-examination  of  the  Scottish  codec  ions.  I 
have  read,  and  sung,  and  fiddled,  and  consid- 
ered, till  I am  hail  blind  and  wholly  stupid. 
The  few  airs  1 have  added  are  enclosed. 

Peter  Pindar  has  at  length  sent  me  all  the 
songs  l expected  from  him.  which  are  in  general 
elegant  and  beautiful.  Have  you  heard  of  a 
London  collection  of  Scottish  airs  and  songs, 
just  published  by  Mr.  Ritson.  an  Englishman  ? 
1 shall  send  you  a copy.  His  introductory  es- 
say on  the  subject  is  curious  and  evinces  great 
reading  and  research,  but  does  not  decide  the 
question  as  to  the  origin  of  our  melodies ; though 
he  shows  clearly  that  M r.  T ytler,  in  his  ingenious 
dissertation,  has  adduced  no  sort  of  proof  of  the 
hypothesis  he  wished  to  establish  ; and  that  his 
classification  of  the  airs  according  to  the  eras, 
when  they  were  composed,  is  mere  fancy  and 
conjecture.  On  John  Pinkerton.  Esq.,  he  has 
no  mercy ; but  consigns  him  to  damnation  ! 
He  snarls  at  my  publication,  on  the  score  of 
Pindar  being  engaged  to  write  some  songs  for 
it ; uncandidiy  and  unjustly  leaving  it  to  be  in- 
ferred, that  the  songs  of  Scottish  writers  had 
been  sent  a packing  to  make  room  for  Peter’s  ! 
Of  you  he  speaks  with  some  respect,  but  gives 
you  a passing  hit  or  two,  for  daring  to  dress  np 
a little  some  old  foolish  songs  for  the  Museum. 
His  sets  of  the  Scottish  airs  are  taken,  he  says, 
from  the  oldest  collections  and  best  authorities: 
many  of  them,  however,  have  such  a strange 
aspect,  and  are  so  unlike  the  sets  which  are 
sung  hy  every  person  of  taste,  old  or  young,  in 
town  or  country,  that  we  can  scarcely  recognize 
the  features  of  our  favorites.  By  going  to  ihe 
oldest  co'Rc'ions  of  our  music,  it  does  not  follow 
that  we  find  the  melodies  in  their  original  state. 
These  melodies  had  been  preserved,  we  know 
not  how  long  by  oral  communication,  before 
being  collected  and  printed  ; and  as  difleient 
persons  sing  the  same  air  very  differently,  ac- 
cording to  i heir  accurate  or  confused  recollec- 
tions of  it,  so  even  supposing  the  first  collectors 
to  have  possessed  the  industry,  the  taste,  and 
discernment  to  choose  the  best  they  con  Id  hear, 
(which  is  far  from  certain,'  still  it  must  evi- 
dently he  a chance,  whether  the  collections  ex- 
hibit any  of  the  melodies  in  the  state  they  were 
first  composed.  In  selecting  the  melodies  for 
my  own  collection.  1 have  been  as  much  guided 
by  the  living  as  by  the  dead.  Where  these  dif- 

*  Our  hard  had  before  reeeiv*  d the  same  advice, 
and  certainly  took  if  so  f r into  consideration,  as  to 
have  cast  about  for  a subject.  E. 


fered,  T preferred  the  sets  that  appeared  to  me 
the  most  simple  and  beautiful,  and  the  most  ge- 
rally  approved  : and,  without  meaning  any  com- 
pliment to  my  own  cajiability  of  choosing,  or 
speaking  of  the  pains  1 have  taken.  1 flatter 
myself  that  my  sets  will  be  found  equally  treed 
from  vulgar  errors  on  the  hand,  and  affected 
graces  on  the  other. 


No.  LX. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

19//t  October,  1794. 

Mv  Dear  Frienp, 

By  this  mor  ing’s  post  I have  your  list,  and, 
in  general,  I highly  approve  of  it.  1 shall,  at 
more  leisure,  give  you  a critique  on  the  whole. 
Clarke  goes  to  your  own  town  by  to-day’s  fly, 
and  1 wish  you  would  call  on  him  and  take  his 
opinion  in  general : you  know  his  taste  is  a 
standard.  He  will  return  here  again  in  a week 
or  two;  so,  please  do  not  mi-s  asking  lor  him. 

! One  thing  I hope  he  will  do,  persuade  you  to 
adopt  my  favorite  Cragie-burn-voood.  in  your 
selection ; it  is  as  great  a favorite  of  h s as  of 
mine.  ’I  he  lady  on  whom  it  was  made,  is  one 
of  the  finest  women  in  Scotland  ; and  in  fact 
tent  re  nous)  is  in  a manner  to  me.  what 
Sterne’s  Eliza  was  <o  him — a mistress,  or 
friend,  or  what  you  will  in  the  guileless  simpli- 
city ol  Platonic  love.  ( Now  don’t  put  any  of 
your  squinting  constructions  on  this,  or  have 
any  clish-maciaver  about  it  among  our  acquaint- 
ances.) I assure  you  that  to  my  lovely  friend 
you  are  indebted  for  many  of  your  best  songs 
of  mine.  Do  you  think  that  the  sober,  gin- 
horse  routine  of  existence,  could  inspire  a man 
with  life,  and  love,  arid  joy — could  file  him 
with  enthusiasm,  or  melt  hint  with  pathos, 
equal  to  the  genius  of  your  book  ? No  ! no  !— 
Whenever  I want  to  be  more  than  ordinary  in 
song  ; to  be  in  some  degree  equal  to  your  di- 
viner airs;  do  you  imagine  that  I fast  and  pray 
for  the  celestial  emanation  ? Tout  an  com  rune! 
1 have  a glorious  recipe  ; the  very  one  that  for 
his  own  use  was  invetved  by  the  divinity  of 
healing  and  poetry,  when  erst  he  piped  to  the 
flocks  of  Admetus.  I put  myself  in  a regimen 
of  ndnrring  a fine  woman  ; and  in  propoition 
to  the  adorability  of  her  charms,  in  the  propor- 
tion you  are  delighted  wi  h my  verses.  The 
lightning  ol  her  eye  is  the  godhead  of  Parnas- 
sus ; and  ihe  witchery  of  her  smile,  the  divin- 
ity of  Helicon  ! 

To  de.-cend  to  business  ; if  you  like  my  idea 
of  When  she  cam  hen  she  babbit,  the  following 
stanzas  of  mine,  altered  a little  from  what  they 
were  formerly  when  sei  to  ano  her  air,  may  per- 
haps do  instead  of  worse  stanzas. 

SAW  YE  MY  P1IELY. 

O,  paw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  1 
O,  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Pfi  ly  1 

See  Poems,  j>.  73. 

Now  for  a few  miscellaneous  remarks.  The 
Posie.  (in  the  Museum;  is  my  composition  : the 
air  was  taken  dowm  from  Mrs.  Burns’s  voice.* 

* The.  Pn*ie  will  he  fi.ur.d  i the  Teems  p.  This, 
and  the  other  poems  <>f  which  Ic  ‘•pe-i  ks.  had  ap- 
peared in  .lobnsnii’s  :Y:iipeiim,  and  Sir.  T.  had  inqui- 
red whether  they  were  our  Lard’s. 


31G 


LETTERS 


It  is  well  known  in  the  West  Country,  but  the 
old  words  are  trash.  By  the  by.  take  a look  nr  the 
tune  again,  and  tell  me  if  you  do  not  think  it  is 
the  original  from  which  Iioslin  Castle  is  compo- 
sed. The  second  part  in  particular,  for  the  first 
two  or  three  bars,  is  exactly  the  old  air.  Strath- 
alien's  Lament  is  mine;  the  music  is  by  our 
right  trusty  and  deservedly  well-beloved  Allan 
Masterdon.  Donocht-Head  is  not  mine;  I 
would  give  ten  pounds  it  were.  It  appeared 
first  in  the  Edinburgh  Herald  ; and  came  to  the 
editor  of  that  paper  with  the  Newcastle  post- 
mark on  it.*  Whistle  o'er  the  hive  o1 1 is  mine  ; 
the  music  is  said  to  be  by  John  Bruce,  a cele- 
brated violin-player  in  Dumfries,  about  the  be- 
ginning ot  this  century.  This  1 know,  Bruce, 
who  was  an  honest  man,  though  a red wud 
Highlandman,  constancy  claimed  it  ; and  by  all 
the  oldest  musical  people  here,  is  believed,  to 
be  the  author  of  it. 

Andrew  und  his  Cutty  Gun.  The  song  to 
which  t his  is  set  in  the  Museum  is  mine,  and 
was  composed  on  Miss  Euphemia  Murray,  of 
Lintrose.  commonly  and  deservedly  called  the 
Flower  of  Strathmore. 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night  ! I met 
with  some  such  words  in  a collection  of  songs 
somewhere,  which  1 altered  and  enlarged  ; and 
to  please  you.  and  to  suit  your  iavorite  air,  1 
have  taken  a s ride  or  two  actoss  my  room,  and 
have  arranged  it  anew,  as  you  will  find  on  the 
other  page. 

SONG. 

Ilnw  long  and  dreary  is  the  night, 

When  1 am  frae  my  dearie! 

See  Poems,  p.  73. 

Tell  me  how  you  like  this.  I differ  from 
your  idea  of  the  expression  of  the  tune.  There 
is,  to  me,  a great  deal  of  tenderness  in  it.  You 

* The  reader  will  be  curious  to  see  this  poem,  so 
highly  praised  by  Burns.  Here  it  is. 

Keen  blaws  the  wind  o’er  Donocht-Head,  f 
The  snaw  diives  snelly  taro’ t lie  dale; 

The  Guber-lunzie  t iris  my  smirk, 

And  shiv;  ring,  tells  his  waefu’  tale  ; 

“Can Id  is  the  night,  O let  me  in, 

And  d nna  let  your  minstrel  fa’; 

And  dinna  let  his  winding  sheet 
Be  naething  hut  a wreath  o’  snaw. 

“Full  ninety  winters  hae  1 seen, 

And  piped  where  gor-cocks  whirring  flew; 

And  ninny  a day  I ve  d inced,  I ween, 

To  lilts  which  from  my  dione  I blew.” 

My  Eppie  waked  and  soon  she  cried, 

"‘Get  up  gni  man,  and  let  him  in  ; 

For  vveel  ye  ken  the  winter  night 
Was  short  when  he  began  his  din.’ 

My  F.ppie’s  voice  O wow  it’s  sweet, 

Even  t!,o’  she  I ans  and  scautds  a wee  ; 

But  when  it’s  tuned  to  sorrow's  tale, 

O.  haith,  it’s  doubly  dear  to  me  ; 

Come  in,  auld  carl,  I’ll  steer  my  fire, 

I’ll  make  it  hleeze  a honnie  flame  ; 

Your  hiu  d is  thin,  ye’ve  tint  the  gate. 

Ye  should  nae  stray  sae  far  frae  hamc. 

“ Nae  hatnehave  I,”  the  minstrel  said, 

“ Sad  party  strife  oVrturn’d  my  ha’; 

And  weeping  at  the  eve  of  life, 

I wander  .hro’  a wreath  o’  snaw.” 

This  affecting  poem  is  apparently  incomplete. 
The  author  need  not  he  ashamed  to  own  himself.  It 
Is  worthy  of  Burns,  or  of  Macniel.  E. 

I A mountain  in  the  North. 


cannot,  in  my  opinion,  dispense  with  a bass  to 
your  addenda  airs.  A lady  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, a noted  performer,  plays  and  sings  at  the 
same  time  so  charmingly,  that  I shall  never 
bear  to  see  any  of  her  songs  sent  inlo  the  world, 
as  naked  as  Mr.  What-d’ye-call-um  has  done 
in  his  London  collection.* 

These  English  songs  gravel  me  to  death.  I 
have  not  that  command  of  ihe  language  that  1 
have  of  my  native  tongue.  1 have  been  at  Dun- 
can Gray,  to  dress  it  in  English,  but  all  I can 
do  is  deplorably  stupid.  For  instance  ; 

SONG. 

Let  not  woman  e’er  complain 
Of  inconstancy  in  love; 

See  Poems , p.  73. 

Since  the  above,  I have  been  out  in  the 
country,  taking  a dinner  with  a friend,  where  I 
met  with  the  lady  whom  I mentioned  in  the 
second  page  in  this  odds-and-ends  of  a letter. 
As  usual  I got  into  song  ; and  returning  home 
I composed  the  following  : 

THE  LOVEPv’s  MORNING  SALUTE  TO  HIS 
MISTRESS. 

Sleep’st  thou  or  vvak’st  thou,  fairest  creature; 
Rosy  morn  now  lifts  his  eye^J 

See  Poems,  p.  73. 

If  you  honor  my  verses  by  setting  the  air  to 
them,  I will  vamp  up  the  old  song,  and  make  it 
English  enough  to  be  understood. 

I enclose  you  a musical  curiosity,  an  East  In- 
dian air,  which  you  would  swear  was  a Scottish 
one.  I know  the  authenticity  of  it,  as  the  gen- 
tleman who  brought  it  over,  is  a particular  ac- 
quain’ance  of  mine.  Do  preserve  me  the  copy 
1 send  you,  as  it  is  the  only  one  I have.  Clarke 
has  set  a bass  to  it,  and  1 intend  putting  it  into 
the  Musical  Museum.  Here  follow  the  verses 
I intend  for  it. 

TnE  AULD  MAN. 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green, 

The  woods  rejoiced  the  day. 

See  Foems,  p.73. 

I would  be  obliged  to  you  if  you  would  pro- 
cure me  a sight  of  Ri  son’s  collection  of  English 
songs,  which  you  mention  in  your  letter.  I 
will  thank  you  for  another  information,  and  that 
as  speedily  as  you  please  ; whether  this  miser- 
able drawling  hotchpotch  epistle  has  not  com- 
pletely tired  you  of  my  correspondence  ? 

* Mr.  Ritsnn. 

+ From  the  fifth  to  the  eleventh  line  of  this  song 
stood  originally  thus: 

Now  to  the  streaming  fountain. 

Or  up  the  heathy  mountain, 

The  hart,  hind,  and  roe,  freely  wildly  -wanton  stray; 
In  twining  hazel  bovvers 
His  lay  the  linnet  pours  ; 

The  lav’rock,  &c. 

$ The  last  eight  lines  stood  originally  thus  : 

When  frae  my  Clitoris  parted. 

Sad.  cheerless,  broken-hearted,  [my  sky. 

The  night’s  gtooiny  shades,  cloudy,  dark,  o’ercast 
But  when  she  charms  my  sight, 

In  pride  of  beauty’s  light ; 

When  through  my  very  heart 
Her  blooming  glories  dart  ; 

’Tis  then,  ’t is  then  I wake  to  life,  and  joy.  E. 


LETTERS. 


317 


No.  LXI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  27 th  October,  1794. 

I am  sensible,  my  dear  friend,  (hat  a genuine 
poet  can  no  more  exist  without  his  mistress 
than  his  meat.  I wish  I knew  the  adorable  she 
whose  bright  eyes  and  witching  smiles  have  so 
often  enraptured  the  Scottish  bard  ! that  I 
might  drink  her  sweet  health  when  the  toast  is 
going  round.  C raigie-bum-wood,  must  cer- 

tainly be  adopted  into  my  family,  since  she  is 
the  object  of  t he  song  ; but  in  the  name  of  de- 
cency I must  beg  a new  chorus-verse  lrom  you. 
0 to  be  lying  beyond  thee,  dearie , is  perhaps  a 
consummation  to  be  wished,  but  will  not  do  for 
singing  in  the  company  of  ladies.  The  songs 
in  your  last  will  do  you  lasting  credit,  and  suit 
the  respective  airs  charmingly.  I am  perfectly 
of  your  opinion  with  respect  to  the  additional 
airs.  The  idea  ol  sending  them  into  the  w'orld 
naked  as  they  were  born  was  ungenerous. 
They  must  all  be  clothed  and  made  decent  by 
our  friend  Clark. 

I find  I am  anticipated  by  the  friendly  Cun- 
ningham in  sending  you  Ritson’s  Scottish  col- 
lection. Permit  me,  therefore,  to  present  you 
with  his  English  collection,  which  you  will  re- 
ceive by  the  coach.  I do  not  find  his  historical 
essay  on  Scottish  song  interesting.  Your  an- 
ecdotes *and  miscellaneous  remarks  will,  I am 
sure,  be  much  more  so.  Allan  has  just  sketch- 
ed a charming  design  from  Maggie  Lauder. 
She  is  dancing  with  such  spirit  as  to  electrify 
the  piper,  who  seems  almost  dancing  too,  while 
he  is  playing  with  the  most  exquisite  glee.  I 
am  much  inclined  to  get  a small  copy,  and  to 
have  it  engraved  in  the  style  of  Ritson’s  prints, 

P.  S.  Pray  what  do  your  anecdotes  say  con- 
cerning Maggie  Lauder  ? Was  she  a real  per- 
sonage, and  of  what  rank  ? You  would  surely 
spier  for  her  if  ye  ca' d at  Anslruther  town. 


No.  LXII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

November,  1794. 

Many  thanks  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your 
present.  It  is  a book  of  the  utmost  importance 
to  me.  I have  yesterday  begun  my  anecdotes, 
&c.,  for  your  work.  I intend  drawing  it  up  in 
the  form  of  a letter  to  you,  which  will  save  me 
from  the  tedious,  dull  business  of  systematic  ar- 
rangement Indeed,  as  all  1 have  to  say  con- 
sists of  unconnected  remarks,  anecdotes,  scraps 
of  old  songs,  &c.,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
give  the  work  a beginning,  a middle,  or  an  end, 
which  the  critics  insist  to  be  absolutely  neces- 
sary in  a work.*  In  my  last  I told  you  my  ob- 
jections to  the  song  you  had  selected  for — My 
Lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground.  On  my  visit  the 
other  day  to  my  fair  Cnloris  (that  is  the  poetic 
name  of  the  lovely  goddess  of  my  inspiration.) 
she  suggested  an  idea,  which  I,  in  my  return 
from  the  visit,  wrought  into  the  following  song. 

* It  does  not  appear  whether  Burns  completed  these 
anecdotes,  &x.  Something  of  the  kind  (probably 
the  rude  draughts,)  was  found  amongst  bis  papers, 
and  appears  in  A ppendix  No.  II.  Note  B. 


My  Chloris.  mark  how  green  the  groves, 

The  primrose  banks  how  fair. 

See  Poems , p.  73. 

How  do  you  like  the  simplicity  and  tender- 
ness of  this  pastoral  ? I think  it  pretty  well. 

I like  your  entering  so  candidly  and  so  kind- 
ly into  the  story  of  Ala  chere  Amie.  1 assure 
you  I was  never  more  in  earnest  in  my  life,  than 
in  the  account  of  that  affair  which  I sent  you  in 
my  Iasi. — Conjugal  love  is  a passion  which  I 
deeply  feel,  and  highly  venerate;  bur,  some- 
how, it  does  not  make  such  a figure  in  poesy 
as  that  other  species  of  the  passion, 

•l  Where  love  is  liberty,  and  Nature  law'.” 
Musically  speaking,  the  first  is  an  instrument 
of  which  the  gamut  is  scanty  and  confined,  but 
the  tones  inexpressibly  sweet ; while  the  last 
has  powers  equal  to  all  the  intellectual  modula- 
tions of  the  human  soul.  Still  I am  a very  poet 
in  my  enthusiasm  of  the  passion.  The  welfare 
and  happiness  of  the  beloved  object  is  the  first 
and  inviolate  sentiment  that  pervades  my  soul ; 
and  whatever  pleasures  I might  wish  for,  or 
whatever  might  be  the  raptures  they  would  give 
me,  yet,  if  they  interfere  with  that  first  princi- 
ple, it  is  having  these  pleasures  at  a dishonest 
price ; and  justice  forbids,  and  generosity  dis- 
dains the  purchase  ! * * * * 

Despairing  of  my  own  powers  to  give  you 
variety  enough  in  English  songs,  1 have  been 
turning  over  old  collections,  to  pick  out  songs, 
of  which  the  measure  is  something  similar  to 
w'hat  I want ; and,  with  a little  alteration,  so  as 
to  suit  the  rhythm  of  the  air  exactly,  to  give 
you  them  for  your  work.  Where  the  songs 
have  hitherto  been  but  little  noticed,  nor  have 
ever  been  set  to  music,  I think  the  shift  a fair 
one.  A song,  which,  under  the  same  first 
verse,  you  will  find  in  Ramsay’s  Tea-Table 
Miscellany.  I have  cut  dow-n  for  an  English 
dress  to  your  Dainty  Davie,  as  follows : 

SONG, 

Altered  from  an  old  English  one. 

It  was  tli e charming  month  of  May, 

When  all  the  flowers  were  fresh  and  gay. 

Sec  Poems,  p.  74. 

You  may  think  meanlv  of  this,  but  take  a 
look  at  the  bombast  original,  and  you  will  be 
surprised  that  I have  made  so  much  of  it.  I 
have  finished  my  song  to  Eothie-murchie's 
Rant ; and  you  have  Clarke  to  consult  as  to 
the  set  of  the  air  lor  singing. 

LASSIE  WP  TIIE  LINT- WHITE  LOCKS* 

cnonus. 

Lassie  t rV  the  lint-white  locks, 

Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie. 

See  Poems,  p.  74. 

This  piece  has  at  least  the  merit  of  being  a 
regular  pastoral : the  vernal  morn,  the  summer 
noon,  the  autumnal  evening,  and  the  winter 
night,  are  regularly  rounded.  If  you  like  it, 
well : if  not,  I will  insert  it  in  the  Museum. 

I am  out  of  temper  lhat  you  should  set  so 
sweet,  so  tender  an  air,  as  Deil  lak  the  wars,  to 

* In  some  of  the  MSS.  the  last  stanza  of  this  song 
runs  thus : 

And  should  the  howling  vvint’ry  blast 
Dislurb  rny  lassie’s  midnight  rest, 

1M  fauld  thee  to  my  faithfu’  breast, 

And  comfort  thee  my  dearie  O. 


318 


LETTERS. 


the  foolish  old  verses.  You  talk  of  the  silliness  : 
o( — Saw  ye  my  father  ; by  heavens  ! the  odds 
is  gold  to  brass  ! Besides  the  old  song,  though 
now  pretty  well  modernized  into  the  Scottish  j 
language,  is  originally,  and  in  the  early  editions, 
a bungling  low  imitation  of  the  Scottish  man- 
ner. by  that  genius  Tom  IVUrfey;  so  has  no 
pretensions  to  be  a Sco'tish  production.  There 
is  a pretty  English  song  by  Sheridan,  in  the 
Duenna , to  this  air,  which  is  out  of  sight  supe- 
rior to  D’Urfrey’s.  It  begins, — 

“ When  sable  night,  each  drooping  plant  restoring.” 

The  air,  if  I understand  the  expression  of  it 
properly,  is  the  very  native  language  of  simpli- 
city, tenderness  and  love.  I have  again  gone 
over  my  song  to  the  tune  as  follows.* 

Now  for  my  English  song  to  Nancy's  to  the 
greenwood , &c. — 

Farewell  ihou  stream  that  winding  flows 
Around  Eliza’s  dwelling ! 

See  Poems,  p.  74. 

There  is  an  air,  The  Caledonian  Hunt's  De- 
light. to  which  I wrote  a song  that  you  will  find 
in  Johnson. 

Ye  hanks  and  hraes  o’  honnie  Doon  ; this  air, 

T think,  might  find  a place  among  your  hun- 
dred. as  Lear  says  of  his  knights.  Do  you  know 
the  history  of  the  air  ? It  is  curious  enough.  A 
good  many  years  ago,  Mr.  James  Miller,  writer 
in  your  good  town,  a gentleman  whom  possibly 
you  know,  was  in  company  with  our  friend 
Llarke  ; and  talking  of  Scottish  music,  Miller 
expressed  an  ardent  ambition  to  be  able  to 
compose  a Scots  air.  Mr.  Clarke,  partly  by 
way  of  joke,  told  him  to  keep  to  the  black  keys 
of  the  harpsichord,  and  preserve  some  kind  of 
rhythm ; and  he  would  infallibly  compose  a 
Scots  oir.  Certain  it  is,  that  in  a few  days, 
Mr.  Miller  produced  the  rudiments  of  an  air, 
which  Mr.  Clarke  with  some  touches  and  cor- 
rections, fashioned  into  the  tune  in  question. 
Ritson.  you  know,  has  the  same  story  of  the  black 
keys;  hut  this  account  which  I have  just  given 
you,  Mr.  Clarke  informed  me  of  several  years 
ago.  Now,  to  show  yon  how  difficult  it  is  to 
trace  the  origin  of  our  airs,  I have  heard  it  re- 
peatedly asserted  that  this  was  an  Irish  air ; nay, 

1 met  with  an  Irish  gentleman  who  affirmed  he 
had  heard  it  in  Ireland  among  the  old  women  ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  a countess  informed 
me,  that  the  first  person  who  introduced  the  air 
into  this  country,  was  a baronet’s  lady  of  her 
acquaintance,  who  took  down  the  notes  from  an 
itinerant  piper  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  How  diffi- 
cult then  to  ascertain  the  truth  respecting  our 
poesy  and  music  I myself  have  lately  seen  a 
couple  of  ballads  sung  through  the  streets  of 
Dumfries  with  my  name  at  the  head  of  them  as 
the  author,  though  it  was  the  first  time  I had 
ever  seen  them. 

I thank  you  for  admitting  Cragie-lurn-wood  ; 
and  I shall  take  care  to  furnish  you  with  a new 
chorus.  In  fact,  the  chorus  was  not  my  work, 
but  a part  of  some  old  verses  to  the  air.  If  I 
can  catch  myself  in  a more  than  ordinarily  pro- 

* See  the  song  in  its  first  and  be3t  dress  in  page 
308.  Our  bard  remarks  upon  it,  “I  could  easily 
throw  this  into  an  English  mould  ; but.  to  rny  taste, 
in  the  simple  and  the  tender  of  the  pastoral  song,  a 
sprinkling  of  the  old  Scottish  has  an  inimitable  ef- 
fect.'’ E. 


pilious  moment,  T shall  write  a new  Cragit- 
burn-wood  altogether.  My  heart  is  much  in  the 
theme. 

I am  ashamed,  my  dear  fellow,  to  make  the 
request ; ’tis  dunning  your  generosity;  but  in 
a moment,  when  I had  forgotten  whether  l was 
rich  or  poor,  T promised  Chloris  a cony  of  your 
songs.  It  wrings  my  honest  pride  to  write  you 
this:  but  an  ungracious  request  is  doubly  so  by 
a tedious  apology.  To  make  you  some  amends, 
as  soon  as  I have  extracted  the  necessary  infor- 
mation out  of  them,  I will  return  you  Ritson’s 
volumes. 

The  lady  is  not  a little  proud  that  she  is  to 
make  so  distinguished  a figure  in  your  collec- 
tion, and  I am  not  a little  proud  that  1 have  it  in 
my  power  to  please  her  so  much.  Lucky  it  is 
for  your  patience  that  my  paper  is  done,  for 
when  I am  in  a scribbling  humor  I know  not 
when  to  give  over. 


No,  LXIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

13/A  November,  1794. 

My  Good  Sir, 

Since  receiving  your  last,  I have  had  ano- 
ther interview  with  Mr.  Clarke,  and-  a long 
consultation.  He  thinks  the  Caledonian  Hunt 
is  more  Bacchanalian  than  amorous  in  its  na- 
ture, and  recommends  it  to  you  to  match  the 
air  accordingly.  Pray,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
how  peculiarly  well  the  Scottish  airs  are  adapt- 
ed for  verses  in  the  form  of  a dialogue?  The 
first  part  of  the  air  is  generally  low,  and  suited 
for  a man’s  voice,  and  the  second  part  in  many 
instances  cannot  he  sung,  at  concert  pitch,  but 
by  a female  voice.  A song  thus  performed 
makes  an  agreeable  variety,  but  few  of  ours  are 
written  in  this  form  : I wish  you  would  think 
of  it  in  some  of  those  that  remain.  The  only 
one  of  the  kind  you  have  sent  me  is  admirable, 
and  will  be  a universal  favorite. 

Your  verses  for  Rothiemurchie  are  so  sweetly 
pastoral,  and  your  serenade  to  Chloris,  for  Diel 
tak  the  wars . so  passionately  tender,  that  I have 
sung  myself  into  raptures  with  them.  Your 
I song  for — My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground,  is 
likewise  a diamond  of  the  first  water  ; and  I am 
quite  dazzled  and  delighted  by  it.  Some  of 
your  Chlorises  I suppose  have  flaxen  hair,  from 
your  partiality  for  this  color ; else  we  differ 
about  it ; for  I should  scarcely  conceive  a wo- 
man to  be  a beauty,  on  reading  that  she  had 
lint-white  locks. 

Farewell  thou  stream  that  winding  flows,  I 
think  excellent,  but  it  is  much  too  serious  to 
come  after  Nancy  ; at  least,  it  would  seem  an 
incongruity  to  provide  the  same  air  with  merry 
Scottish  and  melancholy  English  verses  ! The 
more  that  the  two  sets  of  verses  resemble  each 
other  in  their  general  character,  the  better. 
Those  you  have  manufactured  for  Dainty  Davie 
will  answer  charmingly.  I am  happy  to  find 
you  have  begun  your  anecdotes ! I care  not 
how  long  they  be,  for  it  is  impossible  that  any 
thing  from  your  pen  can  be  tedious.  Let  me 
beseech  you  not  to  use  ceremony  in  telling  me 
when  you  wish  to  present  any  of  your  friends 


LETTERS.  319 


with  the  songs:  ihe  next  carrier  will  bring  you 
three  copies,  and  you  are  as  welcome  to  twenty 
as  to  a pinch  of  snuff. 


No.  LXIV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

19/A  November,  1794. 

You  see,  my  dear  Sir,  what  a punctual  cor- 
respondent I am  ; though  indeed  you  may  thank 
yourself  for  the  tedium  of  my  letters,  as  you 
have  so  llaitered  me  on  my  horsemanship  with 
my  favorite  hobby,  and  praised  the  grace  of  his 
ambling  so  much,  that  1 am  scarcely  ever  off 
his  back.  For  instance,  this  morning,  though 
a keen  blowing  frost,  in  my  walk  before  break- 
fast, 1 finished  my  duet  which  you  were  pleased 
to  praise  so  much.  Whether  I have  uniformly 
succeeded,  1 will  not  say ; but  here  it  is  for 
you,  though  it  is  not  an  hour  old. 

HE. 

O Fliilly,  happy  be  the  day 

When  roving  through  the  gather’d  hay. 

See  foetus,  p.  74. 

Tell  me  honestly  how  you  like  it ; and  point 
out  whatever  you  think  faulty. 

I am  much  pleased  with  your  idea  of  singing 
our  songs  in  alternate  stanzas,  and  regret  that 
you  did  not  hint  it  to  me  sooner.  In  those 
that  remain,  I shall  have  it  in  my  eye.  I re- 
member your  objections  to  the  name  Philly  ; 
but  it  is  the  common  abbreviation  of  Phillis. 
Sally,  the  only  other  name  that  suits,  has  to 
my  ear  a vulgarity  about  it,  which  unfits  it  for 
any  thing  except  burlesque.  The  legion  of 
Scottish  poetasters  of  the  day,  whom  your 
brother  editor,  Mr.  Ritson,  ranks  with  me,  as 
my  coevals,  have  always  mistaken  vulgarity  for 
simplicity:  whereas,  simplicity  is  as  much 
doignee  from  vulgarity  on  the  one  hand,  as  from 
affected  point  and  puerile  conceit  on  the  other. 

1 agree  with  you  as  to  the  air,  Cragie-burn- 
wood , that  a chorus  would  in  some  degree  spoil 
the  effect;  and  shall  certainly  have  none  in  my 
projected  song  to  it.  It  is  not,  however,  a case 
in  point  with  Rothiemurchie;  there,  as  in  Roy's 
Wife  of  Aldivaloch,  a chorus  goes,  to  my  taste, 
well  enough.  As  to  the  chorus  going  first,  that 
is  the  case  with  Rot/s  Wife,  as  well  as  Rothie- 
murchie. In  fact,  in  the  first  part  of  both  tunes, 
the  rhythm  is  so  peculiar  and  irregular,  and  on 
that  irregularity  depends  so  much  of  their 
beauty,  that  we  must  e’en  take  them  with  all 
their  wildness,  and  humor  the  verses  accord- 
ingly. Leaving  out  the  starting  note,  in  both 
tunes,  has,  I think,  an  effect  that  no  regularity 
could  counterbalance  the  want  of. 

Try — 

O Roy’s  Wife  of  Aldivaloch. 

O Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white  lock9. 
and  compare  with — 

Roy’s  Wife  of  Aldivaloch. 

Lassie  wi*  the  lint-white  locks. 

Does  not  the  tameness  of  the  prefixed  syllable 
strike  you  ? In  the  last  case,  with  the  true  fu- 
ror of  genius,  you  strike  at  once  into  the  wild 
originality  of  the  air  : whereas,  in  the  first  in- 
sipid method,  it  is  like  the  grating  screw  of  the 
pins  before  the  fiddle  is  brought  into  tune.  This 


is  my  taste  ; if  I am  wrong,  I beg  pardon  of 
the  cognoscenti. 

The  Caledonian  Hunt  is  so  charming  that  it 
would  make  any  subject  in  a song  go  down ; 
but  pathos  is  certainly  its  native  tongue.  Scot- 
tish Bacchanalians  we  certainly  want,  though 
the  few  we  have  are  excellent.  For  instance, 
Todlin  Home,  is,  for  wit  and  humor,  an  un- 
paralleled composition  ; and  Andrew  and  his 
cutty  gun,  is  the  work  of  a master.  By  the 
way,  are  you  not  quite  vexed  to  think  that 
those  men  of  genius,  for  such  they  certainly 
were,  who  composed  our  fine  Scottish  lyrics, 
should  be  unknown  ? It  has  given  me  many  a 
heart-ache.  Apropos  to  Bacchanalian  songs  in 
Scottish,  I composed  one  yesterday,  for  an  air  I 
like  much — Lumps  o'  Pudding. 

Contented  wi’  little,  and  canty  wi’  mair, 
Whene’er  1 forgather  wi’  sorrow  and  care. 

See  Poems,  p.  75. 

If  you  do  not  relish  this  air,  I will  send  it  to 
Johnson. 

Since  yesterday’s  penmanship,  I have  framed 
a couple  of  English  stanzas,  by  way  of  an  Eng- 
lish song  to  Roy's  Wife.  You  will  allow  me 
that  in  this  instance,  my  English  corresponds 
in  sentiment  with  the  Scottish. 

CANST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS,  MY  KATY  1 
CHORUS. 

Const  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy ? 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy?* 

See  Poems,  p.  75. 

Well!  I think  this,  to  be  done  in  two  or 
three  turns  across  my  room,  and  with  two  or 
three  pinches  of  Irish  Blackguard,  is  not  so 
far  amiss.  You  see  I am  determined  to  have 
my  quantum  of  applause  from  somebody. 

* To  this  address,  in  the  character  of  a forsaken 
lover,  a reply  was  found  on  the  part  of  the  lady, 
among  the  MSS.  of  our  bard,  evidently  in  a female 
hand-writing;  which  is  doubtless  that  referred  to  in 
p.  308,  Letter  No.  XL1I.  Note.  Ttie  temptation  to 
give  it  to  the  public  is  irresistible  ; and  if,  in  so  do- 
ing, offence  should  be  given  to  the  fair  authoress, 
the  beauty  of  her  verses  must  plead  our  excuse. 

Tune — ‘ Roy’s  Wife.’ 

CHORUS. 

Stay,  my  Willie — yet  believe  me, 

Stay , my  Willie — yet  believe  me. 

For,  ah  ! thou  know'st  na  every  pang 
Wad.  wring  my  bosom  shouldst  thou  leave  me. 

Tell  me  that  thou  yet  art  true. 

And  a’  my  wrongs  shall  be  forgiven, 

And  when  ibis  heart  proves  fa  use  to  thee. 

Yon  sun  shall  cease  its  course  in  heaven. 

Stay  my  Willie, 

But  to  think  I was  betray’d, 

That  falsehood  e’er  our  loves  should  sunder! 

To  take  the  flow’ret  to  my  breast, 

And  find  the  euilefu’  serpent  under  ! 

Stay  my  Willie , S^c. 

Could  I hope  thou’dst  ne’er  deceive, 

Celestial  pleasures,  might  I choose  ’em, 

And  slight,  nor  seek  in  other  spheres 
That  heaven  I’d  find  within  thy  bosom . 

Stay  my  Willie,  fyc. 

It  may  amuse  the  reader  to  be  told,  that  on  this 
occasion  the  gentleman  and  the  lady  have  exchang- 
ed the  dialects  of  their  respective  countries.  The 
Scottish  bard  makes  his  address  in  pure  English: 
ihe  reply  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  in  the  Scott  sh  di- 
alect, is.  if  we  mistake  not,  by  a young  and  beauti- 
ful English  woman.  E. 


LETTERS. 


320 

Tell  my  friend  Allan  (for  I am  sure  that  we 
only  want  the  trifling  circumstance  of  being 
known  to  one  another,  to  be  the  best  friends  on 
earth;  that  l much  suspect  he  has,  in  his  plates, 
mistaken  the  figure  of  the  siock  and  horn.  1 
have  at  last,  gotten  one  ; but  it  is  a very  rude 
instrument.  It  is  composed  of  three  part s ; 
the  stock,  which  is  the  hinder  thigh-bone  of  a 
sheep,  such  as  you  see  in  a mutton  ham  ; the 
horn,  which  is  a common  Highland  cow’s  horn, 
cut  off  at  the  smaller  end,  until  the  aperture  be 
large  enough  to  admit  the  slock  to  be  pushed 
up  through  the  horn  until  it  be  held  by  the 
thicker  end  of  the  thigh-bone  ; and  lastly,  an 
oaten  reed  exactly  cut  and  notched  like  that 
which  you  see  every  shepherd  boy  have,  when 
t he  corn-stems  are  green  and  full-grown.  The 
reed  is  not  made  fast  in  the  bone,  but  is  held  by 
the  lips,  and  plays  loose  in  the  smaller  end  of 
the  stock,  while  the  stock  with  the  horn  hang- 
ing on  its  larger  end,  is  held  by  the  hands  in  play- 
ing. The  stock  has  six  or  seven  ventiges,  on 
the  upper  sides,  and  one  back  ventige,  like  the 
common  flute.  This  of  mine  was  made  by  a man 
from  the  braes  of  Athole,  and  is  exactly  what 
the  shepherds  wont  to  use  in  that  country. 

However,  either  it  is  not  quite  properly  bored  in 
the  holes,  or  else  we  have  not  the  art  of  blowing 
it  rightly  ; for  we  can  make  little  of  it.  If  Mr. 
Allan  chooses  I will  send  him  a sight  of  mine  ; 
as  I look  on  myself  to  be  a kind  of  brother- 
brush with  him.  “ Pride  in  Poets  is  nae  sin;” 
and  I will  say  it,  that  I look  on  Mr.  Allan  and 
Mr.  Burns  to  be  the  only  genuine  and  real 
painters  of  Scottish  costume  in  the  world. 


No.  LXV. 

ME.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

'28th  November,  1794. 

I acknowledge,  my  dear  Sir,  you  are  not  only 
the  most  punctual,  but  the  most  delectable  cor- 
respondent I ever  met  with.  To  attempt  flat- 
tering you,  never  entered  into  my  head  ; the 
truth  is,  I look  back  with  surprise  at  my  impu- 
dence, in  so  frequently  nibbling  at  lines  and 
couplets  of  your  incomparable  lyrics,  for  which, 
perhaps,  if  you  had  served  me  right,  you  would 
have  sent  me  to  the  devil.  On  the  contrary, 
however,  you  have  all  along  condescended  to 
invite  my  criticism  with  so  much  courtesy,  that 
it  ceases  to  be  wonderful,  if  I have  sometimes 
given  myself  the  airs  of  a reviewer.  Your  last 
budget  demands  unqualified  praise:  all  the 
songs  are  charming,  but  the  duet  is  a chef  d' 
oeuvre.  Lumps  o'  Pudding  shall  certainly  make 
one  of  my  family  dishes  ; you  have  cooked  it 
so  capitally,  that  it  will  please  all  palates.  Do 
give  us  a few  more  of  this  cast  when  you  find 
yourself  in  good  spirits;  these  convivial  songs  j 
are  more  wanted  than  those  of  the  amorous 
kind,  of  which,  we  have  great  choice.  Be- 
sides, one  does  not  ofien  meet  with  a singer  ca- 
pable of  giving  the  proper  effect  to  the  latter, 
while  the  former  are  easily  sung,  and  acceptable 
to  every  body.  I participate  in  your  regret  that 
the  authors  of  some  of  our  best  songs  are  un- 
known ; it  is  provoking  to  every  admirer  of 
genius. 


I mean  to  have  a picture  painted  from  your 
beautiful  ballad,  The  Soldier's  Return , to  be  en- 
graved for  one  of  my  frontispieces.  The  most 
in  eresting  point  of  time  appears  to  me,  when 
she  first  recognizes  her  ain  dear  Willie,  “ She 
gaz'd,  she  redden’d  like  a rose.”  The  three 
lines  immediately  following  are  no  doubt  more 
impressive  on  the  reader’s  feelings  ; but  were 
the  painter  to  fix  on  these,  then  you’ll  observe 
the  animation  and  anxiety  of  her  countenance 
is  gone,  and  he  could  only  represent  Iter  faint- 
ing in  the  soldier’s  arms.  But  I submit  the 
matter  to  you,  and  beg  your  opinion. 

Allan  desires  me  to  thank  you  for  your  accu- 
rate description  of  the  stock  and  horn,  and  for 
the  very  gratifying  compliment  you  pay  him  in 
considering  him  worthy  of  standing  in  a niche 
by  the  side  of  Burns  in  the  Scottish  Pantheon. 
He  has  seen  the  rude  instrument  you  describe, 
so  does  not  want  you  to  send  it ; but  wishes  to 
know  whether  you  believe  it  to  have  ever  been 
generally  used  as  a musical  pipe  by  the  Scot- 
tish shepherds,  and  when,  and  in  what  part  of 
the  country  chiefly.  1 doubt  much  if  it  was  ca- 
pable of  anything  but  routing  and  roaring.  A 
friend  of  mine  says  he  remembers  to  have 
heard  one  in  his  younger  days,  made  of  wood 
instead  of  your  bone,  and  that  the  sound  was 
abominable. 

Do  not,  I beseech  you,  return  any  books. 


No.  LXVI. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

December , 1794. 

It  is,  I assure  you,  the  pride  of  my  heart,  ro 
do  anything  to  forward,  or  add  to  the  value  of 
your  book  ; and  as  I agree  with  you  that  the 
Jacobite  song  in  the  Museum,  to  There'll  never 
be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame,  would  not  so 
well  consort  with  Peter  Pindar’s  excellent 
lovesong  to  that  air,  I have  just  framed  for  you 
the  following  : 

my  nannie’s  awa. 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  nature  arrays. 

And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o’er  the  braes, 

How  does  this  please  you  ? As  to  the  point 
of  time  for  the  expression,  in  your  proposed 
print  from  my  Sodger's  Return , it  must  cer- 
tainly be  at — “She  gaz’d.”  The  interesting 
dubiety  and  suspense  taking  possession  of  her 
countenance,  and  the  gushing  fondness  with  a 
mixture  of  roguish  playfulness  in  his,  strike  me, 
as  things  of  which  a master  will  make  a great 
deal.  In  great  haste,  but  in  great  truth,  yours. 


No.  LXVII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

January , 1795. 

I fear  for  my  songs ; however  a few  may 
please,  yet  originality  is  a coy  feature  in  com- 
position, and  in  a multiplicity  of  efforts  in  the 
same  style,  disappears  altogether.  For  these 
three  thousand  years,  we  poetic  folks,  have 


LETTERS. 


321 


been  describing  the  spring,  for  instance  ; and  as 
the  spring  continues  the  same,  there  must  soon 
be  a sameness  in  the  imagery,  &c.  of  these 
said  rhyming  folks. 

A great  critic,  Aikin,  on  songs,  says,  that 
love  and  wine  are  the  exclusive  themes  for  song- 
writing. The  following  is  on  neither  subject, 
and  consequently  is  no  song  ; but  will  be  al- 
lowed, I think,  to  be  two  or  three  pretty  good 
prose  thoughts  inverted  into  rhyme. 

FOR  A’  THAT  AND  a’  THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head  and  a’  that  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  72. 

I do  not  give  you  the  foregoing  song  for  your 
book,  but  merely  by  way  of  vive  la  bagatelle ; 
for  the  piece  is  not  really  poetry.  How  will 
the  following  do  for  Craigie-bum-wood  l* 

Sweet  fa’s  the  eve  on  Craigie-burn, 

And  blithe  awakes  the  morrow  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  75. 

Farewell ! God  bless  you. 


No.  LXV11I. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  3 Oth  January , 1795. 
My  Dear  Sir, 

I thank  you  heartily  for  Nannie's  awa,  as  well 
as  for  Craigie-burn,  which  I think  a very  comely 
pair.  Your  observation  on  the  difficulty  of  ori- 
ginal writing  in  a number  of  efforts,  in  the  same 
style,  strikes  me  very  forcibly  : and  it  has  again 
and  again  excited  my  wonder  to  find  you  con- 
tinually surmounting  this  difficulty,  in  the  ma- 
ny delightful  songs  you  have  sent  me.  Your 
vive  la  bagatelle  song,  For  a'  that,  shall  undoubt- 
edly be  included  in  my  list. 


No.  LXIX. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

February,  1795. 

Here  is  another  trial  at  your  favorite  air. 

O lassie,  art  thou  sleeping  yet  ? 

Or  art  thou  waken,  I would  wit  ? 

See  Poems,  p 76. 


HER  ANSWER. 

O tell  na  me  o’  wind  and  rain. 

Upbraid  me  na  wi’  cauld  disdain! 

I do  not  know  whether  it  will  do. 

* Cragie-burn-wood  is  situated  on  the  banks  of  the 
river  Moffat,  and  about  three  miles  distant  from  the 
village  of  that  name,  celebrated  for  its  medicinal  wa- 
ters. The  woods  of  Craigie-burn  and  of  Dumcrief, 
were  at  one  time  favorite  haunts  of  our  poet.  It 
was  there  he  met  the  “ Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white 
locks,”  and  that  he  conceived  several  of  his  beauti- 
ful lyrics.  E. 


No.  LXX. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Ecelefechan,  1th  Feb.,  1795. 
My  Dear  Thomson, 

You  cannot  have  any  idea  of  the  predicament 
in  which  I write  to  you.  In  the  course  of  my 
duty  as  Supervisor  (in  which  capacity  I have 
acted  of  late.)  I came  yesternight  to  this  unfor- 
tunate, wicked,  little  village.  I have  gone  for- 
ward, but  snows  of  ten  feet  deep  have  impeded 
my  progress;  I have  tried  to  “ gae  back  the 
gait  I cam  again,”  but  the  same  obstacle  has 
shut  me  up  within  insuperable  bars.  To  add 
to  my  misfortune,  since  dinner,  a scraper  has 
been  torturing  cat  gut,  in  sounds  that  would 
have  insulted  the  dying  agonies  of  a sow  under 
the  hands  of  a butcher,  and  thinks  himself,  on 
that  very  account,  exceeding  good  company. 
In  fact,  1 have  been  in  a dilemma,  either  to  get 
drunk,  to  forget  these  miseries,  or  to  hang  my- 
self, to  get  rid  of  them  ; like  a prudent  man,  (a 
character  congenial  to  my  every  thought,  word, 
and  deed,)  I of  two  evils  have  chosen  the  least, 
and  am  very  drunk,  at  your  service  !* 

I wrote  to  you  yesterday  from  Dumfries.  I 
had  not  time  then  to  tell  you  all  I wanted  to  say; 
and  heaven  knows,  at  present  I have  not  capa- 
city. 

Do  you  know  an  air — I am  sure  you  must 
know  it,  We'll  gang  nae  mair  to  yon  town  ? 
I think,  in  slowish  time,  it  would  make  an  ex- 
cellent song.  I am  highly  delighted  with  it, ; 
and  if  you  should  think  it  worthy  of  your  atten- 
tion, I have  a fair  dame  in  my  eye  to  whom  I 
would  consecrate  it. 

As  I am  just  going  to  bed,  I wish  you  a good 
night. 


No.  LXXI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

25 th  February,  1795. 

I have  to  thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  two 
epistles,  one  containing  Let  me  in  this  ae  night; 
and  the  other  from  Ecelefechan,  proving  that 
drunk  or  sober,  your  “ mind  is  never  muddy.’’ 
You  have  displayed  great  address  in  the  above 
song.  Her  answer  is  excellent,  and  at  the  same 
time,  takes  away  the  indelicacy  that  otherwise 
would  have  attached  to  his  entreaties.  I like 
the  song  as  it  now  stands,  very  much. 

I had  hopes  you  would  be  arrested  some 
days  at  Ecelefechan,  and  be  obliged  to  beguile 
the  tedious  forenoons  by  song  making.  It  will 
give  me  pleasure  to  receive  the  verses  you  in- 
tend for  0 wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town  ! 


No.  LXXII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

May,  1795. 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  WOODLARK. 

O stay,  sweet  warbling  woodlark,  stay, 

Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray. 

See  Poems,  p.  76. 

* The  bard  must  have  been  tipsy  indeed,  to  abuse 
sweet  Ecelefechan  at  this  rate.  E. 


322  let  t 

Let  me  know  at  your  very  first  leisure,  how 
you  like  this  song. 

ON  CHLORIS  BEING  ILL. 

CHORUS. 

Long,  long  the  night , 

Heavy  comes  the  morrow , 

See  Poems , p.  76. 

flow  do  you  like  the  foregoing?  The  Irish 
air,  Humors  of  Glen , is  a great  favorite  of 
mine ; and  as,  except  ihe  silly  stuff  in  the  Poor 
Soldier,  there  are  not  any  deeent  verses  for  it, 

I have  written  for  it  as  follows : 

SONG. 

Their  groves  o’  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 
reckon. 

Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt  the  per- 
fume. 

See  Poems , p.  76. 


SONG. 

’Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  e’e  was  my  ruin  ; 
Fair  tho’  she  be,  that  was  ne’er  my  undoing  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  77. 

Let  me  hear  from  you. 


No.  LXXIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

You  must  not  think,  my  good  Sir,  that  I 
have  any  intention  to  enhance  the  value  of  my 
gift,  when  I say  in  justice  to  the  ingenious  and 
worthy  artist,  that  the  design  and  execution  of 
the  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night  is,  in  my  opinion, 
one  of  the  happiest  productions  of  Allan’s  pen- 
cil. I shall  be  grievously  disappointed  if  you 
are  not  quite  pleased  with  it. 

The  figure  intended  for  your  portrait,  I think 
strikingly  like  you,  as  far  as  1 can  remember 
your  phiz.  This  should  make  the  piece  inter- 
esting to  your  family  every  way.  Tell  me 
whether  Mrs.  Burns  finds  you  out  among  the 
figures. 

I cannot  express  the  feeling  of  admiration 
with  which  I have  read  your  pathetic  Address 
to  the  Wood-lark,  your  elegant  Panegyric  on 
Caledonia,  and  your  affecting  verses  on  Chlo- 
ris's  illness.  Every  repeated  perusal  of  these 
ives  new  delight.  The  other  song  to  “ Lad- 
ie,  lie  near  me,”  though  not  equal  to  these,  is 
very  pleasing. 


No.  LXXIV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

How  cruel  are  the  parents, 

Who  riches  only  prize  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  77. 


SONG. 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion, 
Round  the  wealthy,  titled  bride  ; 

See  Poems , p.  77. 


E R S. 

Well ! this  is  not  amiss.  You  see  how  I an- 
swer your  orders ; your  tailor  could  not  be 
more  punctual,  I am  just  now  in  a high  fit  for 
poetizing,  provided  that  the  straight  jacket  of 
criticism  don’t  cure  me.  If  you  can  in  a post 
or  two  administer  a little  of  the  intoxicating 
portion  of  your  applause,  it  will  raise  your 
humble  servant’s  frenzy  to  any  height  you 
want.  I am  at  this  moment  “ holding  high 
converse”  with  the  Muses,  and  have  not  a 
word  to  throw  away  on  such  a prosaic  dog  as 
you  are. 


No.  LXXV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

May,  1795. 

Ten  thousand  thanks  for  your  elegant  pres- 
ent : though  I am  ashamed  of  the  value  of  it 
being  bestowed  on  a man  who  has  not  by  any 
means  merited  such  an  instance  of  kindness.  I 
have  shown  it  to  two  or  three  judges  of  the  first 
abilities  here,  and  they  all  agree  with  me  in 
classing  it  as  a first  rate  production,  My  phiz 
is  sae  ken-speckle,  that  the  very  joiner’s  appren- 
tice whom  Mrs.  Burns  employed  to  break  up 
the  parcel  (I  was  out  of  town  that  day,)  knew 
it  at  once.  My  most  grateful  compliments  to 
Allan,  who  has  honored  my  rustic  muse  so 
much  with  his  masterly  pencil.  One  strange 
coincidence  is,  that  the  little  one  who  is  making 
the  felonious  attempt  on  the  cat’s  tail,  is  the 
most  striking  likeness  of  an  ill-deedie , d — n'd, 
v>ee,  rumble- gai-rie,  urchin  of  mine,  whom, 
from  that  propensity  to  witty  wuckedness,  and 
manfu’  mischief,  which  even  at  two  days  auld, 
I foresaw  would  form  the  striking  features  of 
his  disposition,  I named  Willie  Nicol,  after  a 
certain  friend  of  mine,  who  is  one  of  the  mas- 
ters of  a grammar-school  in  a city  which  shall 
be  nameless. 

Give  the  enclosed  epigram  to  my  much- 
valued friend  Cunningham,  and  tell  him  that 
on  Wednesday  I go  to  visit  a friend  of  his,  to 
whom  his  friendly  partiality  in  speaking  of  me, 
in  a manner  introduced  me — I mean  a wrell- 
known  military  and  literary  character,  Colonel 
Dirom. 

You  do  not  tell  me  how  you  liked  my  two 
last  songs.  Are  they  condemned  ? 


No.  LXXVI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

13/A  May,  1795. 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  find  that  you 
are  so  well  satisfied  with  Mr.  Allan’s  produc- 
tion. The  chance  resemblance  of  your  little 
fellow,  whose  promising  disposition  appeared  so 
very  early,  and  suggested  whom  he  should  be 
named  after,  is  curious  enough.  I am  acquain- 
ted with  that  person,  who  is  a prodigy  of  learn- 
ing and  genius,  and  a pleasant  fellow,  though 
no  saint. 

You  really  make  me  blush  when  you  tell  me 
you  have  not  merited  the  drawing  from  me.  I 
do  not  think  I can  ever  repay  you,  or  sufficiently 
esteem  and  respect  you  for  the  liberal  and  kind 
manner  in  which  you  have  entered  into  the 


L E T T KRS. 


323 


spirit  of  my  undertaking,  which  could  not  have 
been  perfected  without  you.  So  1 beg  you 
would  not  make  a fool  of  me  again,  by  speak- 
i ig  of  obligation. 

I like  your  two  last  songs  very  much,  and 
am  happy  to  find  you  are  in  such  a high  fit  of 
poetizing.  Long  may  it  last ! Clarke  has  made 
a fine  pathetic  air  to  Mallet’s  superlative  ballad 
of  William  and  Margaret , and  is  to  give  it  me 
to  be  enrolled  among  the  elect. 


No.  LXXVII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

In  Whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad,  the 
iteration  of  that  line  is  tiresome  to  my  ear. 
Here  goes  what  I think  is  an  improvement. 

O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 

O whistle,  and  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 

Tho’  father  and  mother  and  a’  should  gae  mad, 

Thy  Jeany  will  venture  wi’  ye,  my  lad. 

In  fact,  a fair  dame  at  whose  shrine,  I the  | 
Priest  of  the  Nine,  offer  up  the  incense  of  Par-  I 
nassus — a dame,  whom  the  Graces  have  attired  I 
in  witchcraft,  and  whom  the  Loves  have  armed 
with  lightning,  a Fair  One,  herself  the  heroine 
of  the  song,  insists  on  the  amendment:  and 
dispute  her  commands  if  you  dare  ! 

SONG. 

O this  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 

Fair  tho ’ the  lassie  be. 

See  Poems , p.  77. 

Do  you  know  that  you  have  roused  the  tor- 
pidity of  Clarke  at  last?  He  has  requested  me 
to  write  three  or  four  songs  for  him,  which  he 
is  to  set  to  music  himself.  The  enclosed  sheet 
contains  two  songs  for  him,  which  please  to 
present  to  my  valued  friend  Cunningham. 

I enclose  the  sheet  open,  both  for  your  in- 
•.  pection,  and  that  you  may  copy  the  song, — O 
botinie  was  yon  rosy  brier.  Ido  not  know  whe- 
ther I am  right;  but  that  song  pleases  me,  and 
as  it  is  extremely  probable  that  Clarke’s  newly 
roused  celestial  spark  will  be  soon  smothered 
in  the  fogs  of  indolence,  if  you  like  the  song,  it 
may  go  as  Scottish  verses,  to  the  air  of — I wish 
my  love  was  in  a mire  ; and  poor  Erskine’s 
English  lines  may  follow. 

I enclose  you  a — For  a ’ that  and  a'  that, 
which  was  never  in  print ; it  is  a much  supe- 
rior song  to  mine.  I have  been  told  that  it 
was  composed  by  a lady. 

Now  spring  has  clad  the  grove  in  green, 

And  strew’d  the  lea  wi’  flowers. 

See  Poems,  p.  77. 

O bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier 
That  blooms  sae  far  frae  haunt  o’  man. 

See  Poems,  p.  78. 

Written  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a copy  of  the 
last  edition  of  my  poems,  presented  to  the  lady, 
whom,  in  so  many  fictitious  reveries  of  passion, 
but  with  the  most  ardent  sentiments  of  real 
friendship,  I have  so  often  sung  under  the  name 
of  Chloris. 

’Tis  Friendship’s  pledge,  my  young,  fair  friend, 

Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse. 

See  Poems , p.  78. 

Une  bagatelle  de  Vamilie.  Coila. 


No.  LXXVIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  3 d Aug.,  1795. 

My  Dear  Sir, 

This  will  be  delivered  to  you  by  a Dr. 
Briantcn,  who  has  read  your  works,  and  pants 
for  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance.  1 do  not 
know  the  gentleman,  but  his  friend,  who  ap- 
plied to  me  for  this  introduction,  being  an  ex- 
cellent young  man,  I have  no  doubt  is  worthy 
of  all  acceptation. 

My  eyes  have  just  been  gladdened,  and  my 
mind  feasted,  with  your  last  packet — full  of 
pleasant  things  indeed.  What  an  imagination 
is  yours  ! It  is  superfluous  to  tell  you  that  I am 
delighted  with  all  the  three  songs,  as  well  as 
with  your  elegant  and  fender  verses  to  Chloris. 

I am  sorry  you  should  be  induced  to  alter — 
0 whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad,  to  the 
prosaic  line — Thy  Jeany  will  venture  wi ’ ye,  my 
lad.  I must  be  permitted  to  say,  that  I do  not 
think  the  latter  either  reads  or  sings  so  well  as 
the  former.  I wish,  therefore,  you  would,  in 
my  name  petition  the  charming  Jeany,  whoever 
she  be,  to  let  the  line  remain  unaltered.* 

I should  be  happy  to  see  Mr.  Clarke  produce 
a few  airs  to  be  joined  to  your  verses.  Every 
body  regrets  his  writing  so  very  little,  as  every 
body  acknowledges  his  ability  to  write  well. 
Pray,  was  ihe  resolution  formed  coolly  before 
dinner,  or  was  it  a midnight  vow,  made  over  a 
bowl  of  punch  with  the  bard  ? 

1 shall  not  fail  to  give  Mr.  Cunningham  what 
you  have  sent  him. 

P.  S.  The  lady’s — For  a ’ that  and  a'  that,  is 
sensible  enough,  but  no  more  to  be  compared  to 
yours  than  I to  Hercules. 


No.  LXXIX. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 

Far,  far  from  thee,  I wander  here. 

See  Poems,  p.  78. 

How  do  you  like  the  foregoing  ? I have 
written  it  within  this  hour:  so  much  for  the 
speed  of  my  Pegasus,  but  what  say  you  to  his 
bottom  ? 

No.  LXXX. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I, ast  May  a braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang  glen, 

And  sair  wi’  his  love  did  he  deave  me.  I 

See  Poems,  p.  78. 

* The  editor,  who  has  heard  the  heroine  of  th  e 
song  sing  it  herself,  in  the  very  spirit  of  arch  sim- 
plicity that  it  requires,  thinks  Mr.  Thomson’s  peti- 
tion unreasonable.  If  we  mistake  not,  this  is  the 
same  lady  who  produced  the  lines  to  the  tune  of— 
Roy's  Wife,  ante,  p.  319. 

I In  the  original  MS.,  the  third  line  of  the  fourth 
verse  runs.  “ lie  up  the  Oateslack  to  my  black  cousin 
Bess.”  Mr.  Thomson  objected  to  this  word,  as  well 
as  to  the  word,  Dalgarnock,  in  the  next  verse.  Mr. 
I3u m3  replies  as  follows  : 

“Gateslack  is  the  name  of  a particular  place,  a 
kind  of  passage  up  among  the  Lawlher  hills,  on  the 
confines  of  th  s county.  Dalgarnock  is  also  the 


LETTERS. 


321 


Why.  why  tell  thy  lover. 

Bliss  he  never  must,  enjoy? 

See  Poems,  p.  79. 

_ Such  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  rhythm  of  this 
air,  that  I find  it  impossible  to  make  another 
stanza  to  suit  it. 

I am  at  present  quite  occupied  with  the 
charming  sensations  of  the  tooth-ache,  so  have 
not  a word  to  spare. 


No.  LXXXI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 


My  Dear  Sir, 


3d  June , 1795. 


Your  English  verses  to — Let  me.  in  this  ae 
night,  are  tender  and  beautiful ; and  your  bal- 
lad to  the  “ Lothian  Lassie,”  is  a masterpiece 
for  its  humor  arid  naivete.  The  fragment  for 
the  Caledonian  Hunt  is  quite  suited  to  the  ori- 
ginal measure  of  the  air,  arid,  as  it  plagues  you 
so,  the  fragment  must  content  it.  I would  ra- 
ther, as  I said  before,  have  had  Bacchanalian 
words,  had  it  so  pleased  the  poet ; but,  never- 
theless, for  what  we  have  received,  Lord  make 
us  thankful ! 


No.  LXXXII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

5 th  Feb.,  1796. 

O Robby  Burns , are  ye  sleeping  yet  ? 

Or  are  ye  wauhing , I would  wit  ? 

The  pause  you  have  made,  my  dear  Sir,  is 
awful ! Am  I never  to  hear  from  you  again  ? 
I know  and  I lament  how  much  you  have  been 
afflicted  of  late,  but  I trust  that  returning  health 
and  spirits  will  now  enable  you  to  resume  the 
pen,  and  delight  us  with  your  musings.  I have 
still  about  a dozen  Scotch  and  Irish  airs  that  I 
wish  “ married  to  immortal  verse.”  We  have 
several  true  born  Irishmen  on  the  Scottish  list ; 
but  they  are  now  naturalized,  and  reckoned  our 
own  good  subjects.  Indeed  we  have  none  bet- 
ter. I believe  I before  told  you  that  I have 
been  much  urged  by  some  friends  to  publish  a 
collection  of  all  our  favorite  airs  and  songs  in 
octavo,  embellished  with  a number  of  etchings 
by  our  ingenious  friend  Allan  ; — what  is  your 
opinion  of  this  ? 


No.  LXXXIII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

February,  1796. 

Many  thanks,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your  hand- 
some, elegant  present,  to  Mrs.  B , and  for 

my  remaining  vol.  of  P.  Pindar.  Peter  is  a de- 
lightful fellow,  and  a first  favorite  of  mine.  I 
am  much  pleased  with  your  idea  of  publishing 
a collection  of  our  songs  in  octavo,  with  etch- 
ings. 1 am  extremely  willing  to  lend  every  as- 
name  of  a romantic  spot  near  the  Nith,  where  are 
stiil  a ruined  church  and  burial-ground.  However, 
let  the  first  run,  He  up  the  lang  loan,  &c.” 

It  is  always  a pity  to  throw  out  any  thing  that 
gives  locality  to  our  poei’s  verses.  E. 


sistance  in  my  power.  The  Irish  airs  I shall 
cheerfully  undertake  the  task  of  finding  verses 
for. 

I have  already,  you  know,  equipped  three 
with  words,  and  the  other  day  I strung  up  a 
kind  of  rhapsody  to  another  Hibernian  melody, 
which  I admire  much. 

HEY  FOR  A LASS  Wl’  A TOCHER. 

Awa  wi’  your  witchcraft  o’  beauty’s  alarms. 

The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your  arms; 

See  Poems,  p.  79. 

If  this  will  do,  you  have  now  four  of  my  Irish 
engagement.  In  my  by-past  songs  1 dislike  one 
thing;  the  name  of  Chloris — I meant  it  as  the 
ficiitious  name  of  a certain  lady  : but,  on  sec- 
ond thoughts,  it  i3  a high  incongruity  to  have  a 
Greek  appellation  to  a Scottish  pastoral  ballad. 
Of  this,  and  some  things  else,  in  my  next:  I 
have  more  amendments  to  propose.  What  you 
once  mentioned  of  “ flaxen  locks”  is  just  ; 
they  cannot  enter  into  an  elegant  description  of 
beauty.  Of  this  also  again — God  bless  you  !* 


No.  LXXXIV. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Your  Hey  for  a lass  wi'  a tocher,  is  a most 
excellent  song,  and  with  you  the  subject  is 
something  new  indeed.  It  is  the  first  time  I 
have  seen  you  debasing  the  god  of  soft  desire, 
into  an  amateur  of  acres  and  guineas — 

I am  happy  to  find  you  approve  of  my  propo- 
sed octavo  edition.  Allan  has  designed  and 
etched  about  twenty  plates,  and  I am  to  have 
my  choice  of  them  for  that  work.  Independently 
of  the  Hogarthian  humor  with  which  they 
abound,  they  exhibit  the  character  and  costume 
of  the  Scottish  peasantry  with  inimitable  felici- 
ty. In  this  respect,  he  himself  says  they  will 
far  exceed  the  aquatinta  plates  he  did  for  the 
Gentle  Shepherd,  because  in  the  etching  he 
sees  clearly  what  he  is  doing,  but  not  so  with 
the  aquatinta,  which  he  could  not  manage  to 
his  mind. 

The  Dutch  boors  of  Ostade  are  scarcely  more 
characteristic  and  natural  than  the  Scottish  fig- 
ures in  those  etchings. 


No.  LXXXV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

April,  1796. 

Alas,  my  dear  Thomson,  I fear  it  will  be 
some  time  ere  I tune  my  lyre  again  ! ‘‘By  Ba- 
bel streams  I have  sat  and  wept,”  almost  ever 
since  I wrote  you  last : 1 have  only  known  ex- 
istence by  the  pressure  of  the  heavy  hand  of 
l sickness  and  have  counted  time  by  the  repercus- 
j sions  of  pain  ! Rheumatism,  cold  and  fever, 
have  formed  to  me  a terrible  combination.  I 
close  my  eyes  in  misery,  and  open  them  with- 
out hope,  I look  on  the  vernal  day,  and  say, 
with  poor  Fergusson — 

“ Say,  wherefore  has  an  all-indulgent  Heaven 
Light  to  the  comfortless  and  wretched  given  V* 

* Our  Poet  never  explained  what  name  he  would 
have  substituted  for  Chloris. 

Note  by  Mr.  Thomsou. 


LETTERS. 


325 


This  will  be  delivered  to  you  by  a Mrs.  Hy- 
slop,  landlady  of  the  Globe  Tavern  here,  which 
for  these  many  years  has  been  my  howff,  and 
where  our  friend  Clark  and  I have  had  many  a 
merry  squeeze.  I am  highly  delighted  with  Mr. 
Allan’s  e'chings.  Woo'd  and  married  an'  a' 
is  admirable.  The  grouping  is  beyond  all 
praise.  The  expression  of  the  figures  conform- 
able to  the  story  in  the  ballad,  is  absolutely 
faultless  perfection.  I next  admire.  Turn-im- 
spike.  What  l like  least  is  Jenny  *aid  to  Jockey. 
Besides  the  female  being  in  her  appearance  * * 
* * * if  you  take  her  stooping  into  the  account, 
she  is  at  least  two  inches  taller  than  her  lover. 
Poor  Cleghorn  : I sincerely  sympathize  with 
him  ! Happy  1 am  to  think  that  he  has  yet  a 
well  grounded  hope  of  health  and  enjoyment  in 
this  world.  As  for  me — but  that  is  a * * * * * 
subject. 

No.  LXXXVI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

4th  May,  1796. 

I need  not  tell  you,  my  good  Sir,  what  con- 
cern the  receipt  of  your  last  gave  me,  and  how 
much  l sympathize  in  your  sufferings.  But  do 
not,  I beseech  you,  give  yourself  up  to  despon- 
dency, nor  speak  the  language  of  despair.  The 
vigor  of  your  constituiion.  1 trust,  will  soon  set 
you  on  your  feet  again  ; and  then  it  is  to  be  hop- 
ed you  will  see  the  wisdom  and  the  necessity  of 
taking  due  care  of  a life  so  valuable  to  your  fam- 
ily. to  your  friends  and  to  the  world. 

Trusting  that  your  next  will  bring  agreeable 
accounts  of  your  convalescence,  and  returning 
good  spirits,  I remain,  with  sincere  regard, 
yours. 

P.  S.  Mrs.  Hyslop,  I doubt  not,  delivered 
the  gold  seal  to  you  in  good  condition. 

No,  LXXXVI f. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 
My  Dear  Sir, 

I once  mentioned  to  you  an  air  which  I have 
long  admired — Here's  a health  to  them  that's 
awa,  hinnie,  but  I forget  if  you  took  any  notice 
of  it.  1 have  just  been  trying  to  suit  it  with 
verses  ; and  1 beg  leave  to  recommend  the  air 
to  your  attention  once  more.  I have  only  be- 
gun it. 

CHORUS. 

Here's  a health  to  ane  I lo'e  dear , 

Here' 8 a health  to  ane  I lo'e  dear  ;* 

See  Poems  p,  79. 


No.  LXXXVIII. 

T O THE  SAME. 

This  will  be  delivered  by  a Mr.  Lewars,  a 
young  fellow  of  uncommon  merit.  As  he 

* In  the  letter  to  Mr.  Thomson,  the  three  first 
stanzas  only  are  given,  and  Mr.  Thomson  suppo-ed 
our  poet  had  never  gone  farther.  Amomr  h s MSS 
was  however,  found  the  fourth  stanza,  which  crn- 
ple:es  this  exquisite  song,  the  last  finished  offspring 
of  his  muse.  E. 


will  be  a day  or  two  in  town,  you  will  have 
leisure  if  you  choose  to  write  me  by  him  ; and 
if  you  have  a spare  half  hour  to  spend  with 
hint,  I shall  place  your  kindness  to  my  account. 
I have  no  copies  of  the  songs  I have  sent  you, 
and  I have  taken  a fancy  to  review  them  all, 
and  possibly  may  mend  some  of  them:  so,  when 
you  have  complete  leisure,  I will  thank  you  for 
either  the  originals  or  copies.*  I had  rather  be 
the  author  of  five  well-written  songs,  than  of 
ten  otherwise.  1 have  great  hopes  that  the  gen- 
ial influence  of  the  approaching  summer  will 
set  me  to  rights,  but  as  yet  I cannot  boast  of 
returning  health.  I have  now  reason  to  believe 
that  my  complaint  is  a flying  gout : — a sad  busi- 
ness. 

Do  let  me  know  how  Cleghorn  is,  and  re- 
member me  to  him. 

This  should  have  been  delivered  to  you  a 
month  ago.  I am  still  very  poorly,  but  should 
like  much  to  hear  from  you. 


No.  LXXXIX. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Brow,  on  the  Solway  Frith,  12 th  July,  1796. 

After  all  my  boasted  independence,  cursed 
necessity  compels  me  to  implore  you  for  five 
pounds.  A cruel  * * * * of  a haberdasher,  to 
whom  I owe  an  account,  taking  it  into  his  head 
that  I am  dying,  has  commenced  a process,  and 
will  infallibly  put  me  into  jail.  Do,  for  God’s 
sake,  send  me  that  sum,  and  that  by  return  of 
post.  Forgive  me  this  earnestness,  but  the  hor- 
rors of  a jail  have  made  me  half  distracted.  I 
do  not  ask  all  this  gratuitously  ; for,  upon  re- 
turning health,  I hereby  promise  and  engage 
to  furnish  you  with  five  pounds’  worth  of  the 
neatest  song  genius  you  have  seen.  I tried  my 
hand  on  Jxolhiemurchie  this  morning.  The 
measure  is  so  difficult,  that  it  is  impossible  to 
infuse  much  genius  into  the  lines ; they  are  on 
the  other  side.  Forgive,  forgive  me  ! 

SONG. 

CHORUS. 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  hanks. 

Crystal  Devon , winding  Devon, t 

See  Poems , p.  79. 


No.  XC. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

14 th  July,  1796. 

My  Dear  Sir, 

Ever  since  I received  your  melancholy  let- 
ter by  Mrs.  Hyslop,  I have  been  ruminating  in 

* It  is  needless  to  say  that  this  revisal  Burns  did 
not  live  to  perform.  E. 

+ This  6nng,  and  the  letter  enclosing  it,  are  writ- 
ten in  a character  that  marks  t lie  very  feehle  state 
of  Burns’s  bodily  strength.  Mr.  Syme  is  of  opinion 
that  lie  could  not  have  been  in  any  danger  of  a jail 
at  Dumfries,  where  certa  nly  he  hud  many  firm 
fri  rids  ; nor  under  any  such  necessity  of  imploring 
aid  from  Edinburgh.  But  about  this  time  his  reason 
begun  to  be  at  times  unsettled,  and  the  horrors  of  a 
jail  perpetually  haunted  his  imagination.  He  died 
on  the  21st  of  this  month.  E. 


326 


LETTER  S. 


what  manner  1 could  endeavor  to  .alleviate  your 
sufferings.  Again  and  again  l thought  of  a pe- 
cuniary offer,  but  the  recollection  of  one  of 
your  letters  on  this  subject,  and  the  fear  of  of- 
fending your  independent  spiri',  checked  my  res- 
olution. 1 thank  you  heartily  therefore  for  the 
frankness  of  your  letter  of  the  12th.  and  with 
great  pleasure  enclose  a draft  for  the  very  sum 
1 proposed  sending.  Would  1 were  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  but  for  one  day  for  your 
sake  ! 

Pray,  my  good  Sir,  is  it  not  possible  for  you 
to  muster  a volume  of  poetry  ? If  too  much 
trouble  to  you  in  the  present  state  of  your 
health,  some  literary  friend  might  be  found 
here,  who  would  select  and  arrange  from  your 
manuscripts,  and  take  upon  him  the  task  of 
Editor.  In  the  mean  time  it.  could  be  advertised 
to  be  published  by  subscription.  Do  not  shun 
this  mode  of  obtaining  the  value  of  your  labor: 
remember  Pope  published  the  Iliad  by  sub- 
scription. Think  of  this,  my  dear  Burns,  and 
do  not  reckon  me  intrusive  with  my  advice. 
You  are  too  well  convinced  of  the  respect  and 
friendship  I bear  you  to  impute  anything  I say 
to  an  unworthy  motive.  Yours  faithfully. 

The  verses  to  Rothiemurrhie  will  answer 
finely.  I am  happy  to  see  you  can  still  tune 
your  lyre. 


EXTRACT  OF  A LETTER , 

FROM 

GILBERT  BURNS  TODR.  CURRIE. 

It  may  gratify  curiosity  to  know  some  particulars  of 
the  history  of  the  preceding  Poems,*  on  which  the 
celebrity  of  our  Bard  has  been  hitherto  founded  ; 
and  with  this  view  the  following  extract  is  made 
from  a letter  of  Gilbert  Burns,  the  brother  of  our 
poet,  and  his  friend  and  confidant  from  his  earliest 
years. 


Mossgill,  2d  April,  1798. 

Dear  Sir, 

Your  letter  of  the  14th  of  March  I received 
in  due  course,  but  from  the  hurry  of  the  season 
have  been  hitherto  hindered  from  answering  it.  I 
will  now  try  to  give  you  what  satisfaction  I can, 
in  regard  to  the  particulars  you  mention.  I 
cannot  pretend  to  be  very  accurate  in  respect  to 
the  dates  of  the  poems,  but  none  of  them,  ex- 
cept Winter  a Dirge,  ( which  was  a juvenile 
production.)  The  Death  and  Dying  Words  of 
Poor  Maillie,  and  some  of  the  songs,  were 
composed  before  the  year  1784.  The  circum- 
stances of  the  poor  sheep  were  pretty  much  as 
he  has  described  them.  He  had  partly  by  way 
of  frolic,  bought  a ewe  and  two  lambs  from  a 
neighbor,  and  she  was  tethered  in  a field  ad- 
joining the  house  at  Lochlie.  He  and  I were 
going  out  with  our  teams,  and  our  two  younger 
brothers  to  drive  for  us,  at  mid-day  ; when 
Hugh  Wilson,  a curious  looking  awkward  boy, 
clad  in  plaiding.  came  to  us  with  much  anxiety 
in  his  face,  with  the  information  that  the  ewe 
had  entangled  herself  in  the  tether,  and  was 

♦ This  refers  to  the  pieces  inserted  before  page 
67  of  the  Poems. 


lying  in  the  ditch.  Robert  was  much  tickled 
with  Huoc's  appearance  and  postures  on  the  oc- 
casion. Poor  Maillie  was  set  to  rights,  and 
when  we  returned  from  the  plough  in  the  eve- 
ning, he  repeated  to  me  her  Death  and  Dying 
Words,  pretiy  much  in  the  way  they  now 
stand. 

Among  the  earliest  of  his  poems  was  the 
Epistle  to  Davie.  Robert  often  composed  with- 
out any  regular  plan.  When  anything  made  a 
strong  impress-ion  on  his  mind,  so  as  lo  rouse  it 
to  poetic  exertion,  he  would  give  way  to  the  im- 
pulse, and  embody  the  thought  in  rhyme.  If 
he  hit  on  two  or  three  stanzas  to  please  him,  he 
would  then  think  of  proper  imroductory,  con- 
necting, and  concluding  stanzas;  hence  the 
middle  of  a poem  was  often  first  produced.  It 
was,  I think,  in  the  summer  of  1781,  when  in  the 
interval  of  harder  labor,  he  and  I were  weeding 
in  the  garden  (kailyard.)  that  he  repeated  to  me 
the  principal  part  of  this  epistle.  I believe  the 
first  idea  of  Robert  becoming  an  author  was 
started  on  this  occasion.  I was  much  pleased 
with  the  epistle,  and  said  to  him  I was  of  opin- 
ion it  would  bear  being  printed,  and  that  it 
would  be  well  received  by  people  of  taste  ; that 
I thought  it  at  least  equal  if  not  superior  to  ma- 
ny of  Allan  Ramsay’s  epistles;  and  that  the 
merit  of  these,  and  much  other  Scotch  poetry, 
seemed  to  consist  principally  in  the  knack  of 
the  expression,  but  here,  there  was  a train  of  in- 
teresting sentiment,  and  the  Scoticism  of  the 
language  scarcely  seemed  affected,  but  appeared 
to  be  the  natural  language  of  the  port ; that, 
besides,  there  was  certainly  some  novelty  in  a 
poet  pointing  out  the  consolations  that  were  in 
store  for  him  when  he  should  go  a-begging. 
Robert  seemed  very  well  pleased  with  my  crit- 
icism, and  we  talked  of  sending  it  to  some  mag- 
azine, but  as  this  plan  afforded  no  opportunity 
of  knowing  how  it  would  take,  the  idea  was 
dropped. 

It  was.  I think,  in  the  winier  following,  as  we 
were  going  together  wiih  carts  lor  coal  to  the 
family  fire  (and  1 could  yet  point  out  the  partic- 
ular spot.)  that  the  author  first  repeated  to  me 
the  Address  lo  the  Deil.  The  curious  idea  of 
such  an  address  was  suggested  to  him  by  run- 
ning over  in  his  mind  the  many  ludicrous  ac- 
I counts  and  representations  we  have,  from  vari- 
ous quarters,  of  this  august  personage.  Death 
and  Dr.  tlorvbook,  though  not  published  in  the 
Kilmarnock  edition,  was  produced  early  in  the 
year  1785.  The  Schoolmaster  of  Tavbolton 
parish,  to  eke  up  the  scanty  subsistence  allow- 
ed to  that  useful  class  of  men,  had  set  up  a 
shop  of  grocery  goods.  Having  accidentally 
fallen  in  with  some  medical  books,  and  become 
most  hobby-horsically  attached  to  the  study  of 
medicine,  he  had  added  the  sale  of  a few  medi- 
cines to  his  little  trade.  He  had  got  a shop-bill 
printed,  at  the  bottom  of  which,  overlooking  his 
own  incapacity,  he  had  advertised,  that  Advice 
would  be  given  in  “ common  disorders  at  the 
.shop  gratis.”  Robert  was  at  a mason  meeting  in 
Tarbolton,  when  the  Dominie  unfortunately 
made  too  ostentatious  a display  of  his  medical 
skill.  As  he  parted  in  the  evening  from  this 
mixture  of  pedantry  and  physic,  at  the  place 
where  he  describes  bis  meeting  with  Death,  one 
of  those  floating  ideas  of  apparition  he  men- 
tions in  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  crossed  his 
mind : this  set  him  to  work  for  the  rest  of  the 


LETTERS 


way  home.  These  circumstances  he  related 
when  he  repeated  the  verses  to  me  next  after- 
noon, as  I was  holding  the  plough,  and  he  was 
letting  the  water  off  of  the  field  beside  me. 
The  Epistle  to  Jehu  Lnpruik  was  produced  ex- 
actly on  the  occasion  described  by  the  author. 
He  says  in  that  poem,  On  fasten-e'en.  we  had  a 
rockiu.  I believe  he  has  omitted  the  word  rock- 
ing in  the  glossary.  It  is  a term  derived  from 
those  primitive  limes,  when  the  countrywomen 
employed  their  spare  hours  in  spinning  on  the 
rack,  or  distaff.  This  simple  implement  is  a 
very  portable  one.  and  well  fitted  to  the  social 
inclinadon  of  meeting  in  a neighbor’s  house  ; 
hence  the  phrase  of  going  a-rocking  or  with  the 
rock.  As  the  connexion  the  phrase  had  with 
the  implement  was  forgotten,  when  the  rock 
gave  place  to  the  spinning-wheel,  the  phrase 
came  to  be  used  by  both  sexes  on  social  occa- 
sions, and  men  talk  of  going  with  their  rocks  as 
well  as  women. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  rockings  at  our  house 
when  we  had  twelve  or  fifteen  young  people 
with  their  rocks,  that  Lapraik’s  song  beginning 
“ When  I upon  thy  bosom  lean,”  was  sung, 
and  we  were  informed  who  was  the  author. 
Upon  this,  Robert  wrote  his  first  epistle  to  La- 
praik  ; and  his  second  in  reply  to  his  answer. 
The  verses  to  the  Mouse,  and  Mountain  Daisy. 
were  composed  on  the  occasions  men  ioned,  and 
while  the  author  was  holding  the  plough;  I 
could  point  out  the  particular  spot  where  each 
was  composed.  Holding  the  plough  was  a fa- 
vorite situation  with  Robert  for  poetic  composi- 
tion, and  some  of  his  best  verses  were  produ- 
ced while  he  was  at  that  exercise.  Several  of 
the  poems  were  produced  for  the  purpose  of 
bringing  forward  some  favorite  sentiment  of  the 
author.  He  used  to  remark  to  me,  that  he 
could  not  well  conceive  a more  mortifying  pic- 
ture of  human  life,  than  a man  seeking  work. 

=*Incas:ing  about  in  his  mind  how  this  sentiment 
might  be  brought  forward,  the  elegy  Man  was 
made  to  mourn , was  composed.  Robert  had 
frequently  remarked  to  me  that  he  thought 
there  was  something  peculiarly  venerable  in  the 
phrase.  “ Let  us  worship  God.”  used  by  a de- 
cent, sober  head  of  a family,  introducing  fami- 
ly worship.  To  this  sentiment  of  the  author 
the  world  is  indebted  for  the  Cotter  s Saturday 
Night.  The  hint  of  the  plan,  and  the  title  of 
the  poem,  were  taken  from  Furgusson’s  Farm- 
er's Ingle.  When  Robert  had  not  some  pleas- 
ure in  view,  in  which  I was  not  thought  fit  to 
participate,  we  used  frequently  to  walk  togeth- 
er, when  the  weather  was  favorable,  on  the 
Sunday  afternoons  (those  precious  breathing 
times  to  the  laboring  part  of  the  community,) 
and  enjoyed  such  Sundays  as  would  make  one 
regret  to  see  their  number  abridged.  It  was  in 
one  of  these  walks,  that  I first  had  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  the  author  repeat  the  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night.  I do  not  recollect  to  have 
heard  or  read  any  thing  by  which  I was  more 
highly  electrified.  The  fifth  and  sixth  stanzas, 
and  the  eighteenth,  thrilled  with  peculiar  ecsta- 
cy  through  my  soul.  I mention  this  to  you, 
that  you  may  see  what  hit  the  taste  of  unlet- 
tered criticism.  I should  be  glad  to  know  if 
the  enlightened  mind  and  refined  taste  of  Mr. 
Roscoe,  who  has  borne  such  honorable  testimo- 
ny to  this  poem,  agrees  with  me  in  the  selec- 


327 

tion.  Fergusson,  in  his  Hallow  Fair  of  Edin- 
burgh, 1 believe,  likewise  furnished  a hint  of  the 
title  and  plan  of  the  Holy  Fair.  The  farcical 
scene  the  poet  there  describes  was  often  a favor- 
ite field  of  his  observation,  and  the  most  of  the 
incidents  he  mentions  had  actually  passed  be- 
fore his  eyes.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  men- 
tion that  the  Lament  was  composed  on  that  un- 
fortunate passage  in  his  matrimonial  history, 
w'hich  I have  mentioned  in  my  letter  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop,  after  the  first  distraction  of  his  feel- 
ings had  a little  subsided.  The  Tale  of  the 
Twa  Dogs  was  composed  after  the  resolution 
of  publishing  was  nearly  taken.  Robert  had 
had  a dog,  which  he  called  Luath , that  was  a 
great  favorite.  The  dog  had  been  killed  by  tho 
wanton  cruelty  of  some  person  the  night  before 
my  father’s  death.  Robert  said  to  me,  that  he 
should  like  to  confer  such  immortality  as  he 
could  bestow  upon  his  old  friend  Luath , and 
that  he  had  a great  mind  to  introduce  something 
into  the  book,  under  the  title  of  Stanzas  to  the 
Memory  of  a quadruped  Friend  ; but  this  plan 
was  given  up  for  the  Tale  as  it  now  stands. 
Coesar  wras  merely  the  creature  of  the  poet's  im- 
agination, created  for  the  purpose  of  holding 
chat  with  his  favorite  Luath.  The  first  time 
Robert  heard  the  spinnet  played  upon,  was  at 
the  house  of  Dr.  Lawrie,  then  minister  of  the 
parish  of  Loudon,  now  in  Glasgow,  having  giv- 
en up  the  parish  in  favor  of  his  son.  Dr.  Law- 
rie has  several  daughters  : one  of  them  played  ; 
the  father  and  mother  led  down  the  dance  ; tho 
rest  of  the  sisters,  the  brother,  the  poet,  and  the 
other  guests,  mixed  in  it.  It  was  a delightful 
family  scene  for  our  poet,  then  lately  introduced 
to  the  world.  His  mind  was  roused  to  a poetic 
enthusiasm,  and  the  stanzas/).  32  of  the.  Poems, 
were  left  in  the  room  where  he  slept.  It  was  to 
Dr.  Lawrie  that  Dr.  Blacklock’s  letter  was  ad- 
dressed, which  my  brother  in  his  letter  to  Dr. 
Moore,  mentions  as  the  reason  of  his  going  to 
Edinburgh. 

When  my  father  feued  his  little  property  near 
Alloway-Ivirk,  the  wall  of  the  church-yard  had 
gone  to  ruin,  and  cattle  had  free  liberty  of  pas- 
turing in  it.  My  father,  with  two  or  three  oth- 
er neighbors,  joined  in  an  application  to  the 
town  council  of  Ayr,  who  w’ere  superiors  of  tho 
adjoining  land,  for  liberty  to  rebuild  it,  and  rai- 
sed by  subscription  a sum  for  enclosing  this  an- 
cient cemetery  with  a wall ; hence,  he  came  to 
consider  it  as  his  burial-place,  and  we  learned 
that  reverence  for  it  people  generally  have  for 
the  burial-place  of  their  ancestors.  My  brother 
was  living  in  Ellisland,  when  Captain  Grose, 
on  his  peregrinations  through  Scotland,  staid 
some  time  at  Carsehouse,  in  the  neighborhood, 
with  Captain  Robert  Riddel,  of  Glen-Riddel,  a 
particular  friend  of  my  brother's.  The  Anti- 
quarian and  the  poet  were  “ Unco  pack  and 
thick  thegither”  Robert  requested  of  Captain 
Grose,  when  he  should  come  to  Ayrshire, 
that  he  would  make  a drawing  of  Alloway- 
Kirk,  as  it  was  the  burial-place  of  his  father, 
and  where  he  himself  had  a sort  of  claim  to  lay 
down  his  bones  when  they  should  be  no  longer 
serviceable  to  him  ; and  added  by  way  of  en- 
couragement, that  it  was  the  scene  of  many  a 
ood  story  of  witches  and  apparitions,  of  which 
e knew  the  Captain  was  very  fond.  The 
Captain  agreed  to  the  request,  provided  the 


LETTERS. 


:>23 


poet  would  furnish  a witch-story  to  be  printed 
along  witli  it.  Tam  o'  Shanler  was  produced 
on  this  occasion,  and  was  first  published  in 
Grose's  Atitiquities  of  Scotland. 

The  poem  is  founded  on  a traditional  story. 
The  leading  circumstances  of  a man  riding 
home  very  late  from  Ayr,  in  a stormy  night, 
bis  seeing  a light  in  Alloway-Kirk,  his  having 
the  curiosity  to  look  in,  his  seeing  a dance  of 
witches,  with  the  devil  playing  on  a bagpipe  to 
them,  the  scanty  covering  of  one  of  the  witch- 
es, which  made  him  so  far  lorget  himself,  as  to 
cry  Weel  loupen  short  sark  ! — with  the  melan- 
choly catastrophe  of  the  piece,  is  all  a true  sto- 
ry, that  can  be  well  attested  by  many  respecta- 
ble old  people  in  that  neighborhood. 

I do  not  at  present  recollect  any  circumstan- 
ces respecting  the  other  poems,  that  could  be  at 
all  interesting;  even  some  ol  those  I have  men- 
tioned, I am  afraid,  may  appear  trifling  enough, 
but  you  will  only  make  use  of  what  appears  to 
you  of  consequence. 

The  following  Poems  in  the  first  Edinburgh 
edition,  were  not  in  that  published  in  Kilmar- 
nock. Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook  ; the  Brigs  of 
Ayr  ; the  Calf ; (the  poet  had  been  with  Mr. 
Gavin  Hamilton  in  the  morning,  who  said  joc- 
ularly to  him  when  he  was  going  to  church,  in 
allusion  to  the  injunction  of  some  parents  to 
their  children,  that  he  must  be  sure  to  bring 
him  a note  of  the  sermon  at  mid-day  : this  ad 
dress  to  the  Reverend  Gentleman  on  his  text 
was  accordingly  produced.)  The  Ordination  ; 
The  Address  to  the  Unco  Guid;  Tam  Samson's 
Elegy;  A Winter  Night  ; Stanzas  on  the  same 
Occasion  as  the  preceding  Prayer  ; Verses  left 
at  a Reverend  Friend's  House  ; The  First 
Psalm  ; Prayer  under  the  Pressure  of  violent 
Anguish  ; the  First  Six  Verses  of  the  Ninetieth 
Psalm;  Verses  to  Miss  Logan , with  Beattie's 
Poems  ; To  a Haggis  ; Address  to  Edinburgh  ; 
John  Barleycorn  ; When  Guilford  Guid  ; Be- 
hind yon  hills  where  St  inchar  flows  ; Green  grow 
the  Rashes  ; Again  rejoicing  Nature  sees  ; 
The  gloomy  Night  ; No  Churchman  1 am. 

If  you  have  never  seen  the  first  edition,  it 
will,  perhaps,  not  be  amiss  to  transcribe  the 
preface,  that  you  may  see  the  manner  in  which 
the  Poet  made  his  first  awe-struck  approach  to 
the  bar  of  public  judgment, 

. [Here  followed  the  Preface  as  given  in  the 
first  page  of  the  Poems  ] 

I am,  dear  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient  humble  Servant 

GILBERT  BURNS. 

Dr.  Currie,  Liverpool. 


To  this  history  of  the  poems  which  are  con- 
tained in  this  volume,  it  may  be  added,  that  our 
author  appears  to  have  made  little  alteration  in 
them  after  their  original  composition,  except  in 
some  few  instances,  where  considerable  addi- 
tions have  been  introduced  After  he  had  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  the  public  by  his  first  edi- 
tion, various  criticisms  were  offered  him  on  the 
peculiarities  of  his  style,  as  well  as  of  his  sen- 
timents ; and  some  of  these,  which  remain 
among  his  manuscripts,  are  by  persons  of  great 
taste  and  judgment.  Some  few  of  these  criti- 
cisms he  adopted,  but  the  far  grea  er  part  he 
rejected;  and,  though  something  has  by  this 


means  been  lost  in  point  of  delicacy  and  cor- 
rectness, yet  a deeper  impression  is  left  of  the 
strength  and  originality  of  his  genius.  The 
firmness  of  our  poet’s  character,  arising  from  a 
just  confidence  in  his  own  powers,  may,  in  part, 
explain  his  tenaciousness  of  his  peculiar  expres- 
sions ; but  it  may  be  in  some  degree  accounted 
for  also,  by  the  circumstances  under  which  the 
poems  were  composed.  Burns  did  not,  like 
men  of  genius  born  under  happier  auspices,  re- 
tire, in  the  moment  of  inspiration,  to  the  silence 
and  solitude  of  his  study,  and  commit  his  ver- 
ses to  paper  as  they  arranged  themselves  in  his 
mind.  Fortune  did  not  afford  him  this  indul- 
gence. It  was  during  the  toils  of  daily  labor 
That  his  fancy  exerted  itself;  the  muse,  as  he 
himself  informs  us,  found  him  at  the  plough. 
In  this  situation,  it  was  necessary  to  fix  his  ver* 
ses  on  his  memory,  and  it  was  olten  many 
days,  nay  weeks,  alter  a poem  was  finished,  be- 
foie  it  was  written  down.  During  all  this  time, 
by  frequent  repetition,  the  association  between 
the  thought  and  the  expression  was  confirmed, 
and  the  impartiality  of  taste  with  which  writ- 
ten language  is  reviewed  and  re  ouched  after  it 
has  faded  on  the  memory,  could  not  in  such  in- 
stances be  exerted.  The  original  manuscripts 
of  many  of  his  poems  are  preserved,  and  they 
differ  in  nothing  material  Irom  the  last  printed 
edition.  Some  few  variations  may  be  noticed. 

1.  In  The  Author's  earnest  Cry  and  Prayer, 
after  the  stanza  beginning, 

Erskine,  a spunkie , Norland  Billie, 

there  appears  in  his  book  of  manuscripts,  the 
following : 

t Thee,  Sodger  Hush,  my  watchman  stented, 

If  Bardies  e’er  are  represented  ; 

1 ken  if  that  your  sword  were  wanted 
Ye’d  lend  your  hand  ; 

But  when  there’s  ought  to  say  aneut  it, 

Ye’re  at  a stand. 

Sodger  Hugh,  is  evidently  the  present  Earl 
of  Eglintoun,  then  Colonel  Montgomery  of 
Coilsiield,  and  representing  in  parliament  the 
county  of  Ayr.  Why  this  was  left  out  in  print- 
ing does  not  appear.  The  noble  earl  will  not 
be  sorry  to  see  this  noiice  of  him,  familiar 
though  it  be,  by  a bard  whose  genius  he  admi- 
red, and  whose  fate  he  lamented. 

2.  In  The  Address  to  the  Deil,  the  second 
stanza  ran  originally  thus  : 

Lang  syne  in  Eden’s  happy  scene, 

When  strappin  Adam's  d;iys  u’ere  green, 

And  Eve  was  like  my  bonnie  Jean, 

My  dearest  part, 

A dancin,  sweet,  young,  handsome  quean, 

Wi’  guiltless  heart. 

3.  In  The  Elegy  on  Poor  Maillie,  the  stanza 
beginning, 

She  was  nae  get  o’  moorland  tips, 
was,  at  first,  as  follows  : 

She  was  na  get  o’  runted  rams. 

Wi’  woo’  like  goats,  and  legs  like  trams  ; 

She  was  the  flower  o’  Fairfee  lambs, 

A famous  breed  ; 

Nowr  Robin,  greet  n,  chows  the  hams 
O’  Mai. lie  dead. 

It  were  a pity  that  the  Fairlee  1 imbs  should  lose 
the  honor  once  intended  them. 

4.  But  the  chief  variations  are  found  in  the 
poems  introduced  for  the  first  time,  in  the  edi- 


LETTERS. 


329 


lion  of  two  volumes,  small  octavo,  published  in 
1792.  Of  the  poem  written  in  Friar's-Carse 
Hermitage,  there  are  several  editions,  and  one 
of  these  has  nothing  in  common  with  the  prin- 
ted poem  but  the  first  four  lines.  The  poem 
that  is  published,  which  was  his  second  effort  on 
the  subject,  received  considerable  alterations  in 
printing. 

Instead  of  the  six  lines  beginning, 

Say , man's  true , genuine  estimate, 

in  manuscript,  the  following  are  inserted  : 

Say.  the  criterion  of  tlieir  fate, 

Th’  important  query  of  their  state. 

Is  not,  art  thou  high  or  low  ? 

Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  1 
Wert  thou  cottager  or  king? 

Prince  or  peasant  ? — no  such  thing. 

5.  The  Epistle  to  R.  G.  Esq.  of  F.  that  is  to 
R.  Graham,  Esq.  of  Fintra,  also  underwent 
considerable  alteraiions,  as  may  be  collected 
from  the  general  Correspondence.  The  style 
of  poetry  was  new  to  our  poet,  and  though  he 
was  fitted  to  excel  in  it,  it  cost  him  more  trou- 
ble than  his  Scottish  poetry.  On  the  contrary, 
Tam  o'  Shanter  seems  to  have  issued  perfect 
from  the  author’s  brain.  The  only  considera- 
ble alteration  made  on  reflection,  is  the  omis- 
sion of  four  lines,  which  had  been  inserted  after 
the  poem  was  finished,  at  the  end  of  the  dread- 
ful catalogue  of  the  articles  found  on  the  haly 
table,”  and  which  appeared  in  the  first  edition 
of  the  poem,  printed  separately. — They  came 
after  the  line, 

Which  even  to  name  would  he  unlawful 

and  are  as  follows  : 

Three  lawyers’  tongues  turn’d  inside  out, 

Wi’  lies  seem’d  like  a beggar’s  clout, 

And  priests’  heart,  rotten,  black  as  muck, 

Lay,  st. liking  vile,  in  every  neuk. 

These  lines  which,  independent  of  other  objec- 
tions, interrupt  and  destroy  the  emotions  of 
terror  which  the  preceding  description  had  ex- 
cited, were  very  properly  left  out  of  the  printed 
collection,  by  the  advice  of  Mr.  Fraser  Tyiler  ; 
to  which  Burns  seems  to  have  paid  much  def- 
erence * 

6 The  Address  to  the  shade  of  Thomson,  be- 
gan in  the  first  manuscript  copy  in  the  lollowing 
manner : 

While  cold-ey’d  Spring,  a v:rgin  coy. 

Unfolds  her  verdant  mantle  siyeet ; 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  jny, 

A carpet  for  her  youthful  feet ; 

While  Summer,  with  a matron’s  grace, 

Walks  stately  in  the  cooling  shade  ; 

And  oft  delighted,  loves  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade  ; 

While  Ainuinn,  benefai  lor  kind, 

With  age’s  hoary  honors  cl  d, 

Surveys  with  self-approving  mind, 

Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed,&c. 

By  the  al  eration  in  the  printed  poem,  it  may 
be  quesiioned  whether  the  poetry  is  much  im- 
proved ; the  poet  however  has  found  means  to 

* These  four  lines  have  been  inadveriently  repla- 
ced in  the  copy  of  Tam  o'  Shunter,  published  in  ilie 
first  volume  of  the  ••  Poetry,  Or  ginal  and  Selected,” 
of  Crash  and  Reid,  of  Glasgow;  and  m this  circum- 
stance is  owing  their  being  noticed  here.  A-  our 
poet  del.bera  ely  rejected  ihem,  it  is  hoped  that  no 
future  printer  will  insert  them. 


introduce  the  shades  of  Dryburgh,  the  residence 
of  the  Earl  of  Buchan,  at  whose  request  these 
verses  were  written. 

These  observations  might  be  extended,  but 
what  are  already  offered  will  satisly  curiosity, 
and  there  is  nothing  of  any  importance  that 
could  be  added. 


THE  FOLLOWING  LETTER 

Of  Burns,  which  contains  some  hints  relative  to  the 
origin  of  his  celebiated  tale  of  “Tam  o’  Shanter,” 
the  Publishers  trust,  will  be  found  interesting  to 
every  reader  of  his  woiks.  There  appears  no  rea- 
son to  doubt  of  its  being  genuine,  though  it  has 
not  been  inserted  in  his  correspondence  published 
by  Dr.  Currie. 


TO  FRANCIS  GROSE,  ESQ.  F.  A.  S.* 

Among  the  many  witch  stories  I have  heard 
relating  to  Alloway-Kirk,  I distinctly  remember 
only  two  or  three. 

Upon  a stormy  night,  amid  whistling  squalls  of 
wind,  and  bitter  blasts  of  hail ; in  short,  on  such 
a night  as  the  devil  would  chuse  to  take  the  air 
in  ; a farmer  or  farmer’s  servant  was  plodding 
and  plashing  homeward  with  his  plough-irons 
on  his  shoulder,  having  been  getting  some  re- 
pairs on  them  at  a neighboring  smi  hy.  His 
way  lay  by  the  kirk  of  Alloway,  and  being 
rather  on  the  anxious  look  out  in  approaching  a 
place  so  well  known  to  be  a favoriie  haunt  of 
the  devil  and  the  devil’s  friends  and  emissa- 
ries, he  was  struck  aghast  by  discovering 
through  the  horrors  of  the  storm  and  stormy- 
night,  a light  which  on  his  nearer  approach 
plainly  showed  itself  to  proceed  from  the  haun- 
ted edifice.  Whether  he  had  been  foriified 
from  above  on  his  devout  supplication,  as  is  cus- 
tomary with  people  when  they  suspect  the  im- 
mediate presence  of  Satan  or  whether,  accord- 
ing to  another  custom,  lie  had  got  courageously 
drunk  at  the  smithy,  I wi  1 not  pre  end  to  deter- 
mine ; hut  so  it  was,  that  he  ventured  to  go  up 
to.  nay  into  the  very  kirk.  As  good  luck 
would  have  it,  his  temerity  came  off  unpunished. 

The  members  of  the  infernal  junto  were  all 
out  on  some  midnight  business  or  other,  and  he 
saw  nothing  but  a kind  of  kettle  or  caldron  de- 
pending from  the  roof,  over  the  fire,  simmering 
some  heads  of  nnchrisfened  children,  limbs  of 
executed  malefaciors,  &c.  for  the  business  of 
the  night.  It  was  in  for  a penny,  in  for  a pound, 
with  tiie  honest  ploughman  : so  without  cere- 
mony he  unhooked  the  caldron  from  off  the  fire, 

*This  Letter  was  first  published  in  the  Censura 
Littrana , I76fi,  and  was  communicated  to  the  Editor 
of  that  work  by  Mr.  Gilchrist  of  Stamford,  accompa- 
nied with  the  following  remark  : 
j “hi  a collection  of  miscellaneous  papers  of  the 
| Ant  qnary  Grose,  which  I purchased  a few  years 
since,  I found  the  following  letter  written  to  him  by 
j Burns,  when  the  former  was  collecting  the  Antiqui- 
| ties  ot  Scotland.  When  1 prem  se  it  was  on  the 
second  tradition  that  he  afterwards  formed  the  in- 
I imitable  tale  of ‘Tam  o’ Shanter.’  I cannot  doubt 
I of  its  being  read  with  great  interest,  h were  ‘burn- 
ing day  light’ to  point  out  to  a reader  (and  who  is 
j not  a reader  of  Burns  ?)  the  thoughts  he  afterwards 
I transplanted  into  the  rhythmical  narrative.  O.  G. 


330 


LETTERS. 


and  pouring  out  the  damnable  ingredients,  in- 
verted it  on  his  head,  and  carried  it  fairly  home, 
where  it  remained  long  in  (he  family,  a living 
evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  story. 

Another  story  which  I can  prove  to  be  equally 
authentic,  was  as  follows  : 

On  a market  day  in  the  town  of  Ayr,  a far- 
mer from  Carrick,  and  consequently  whose 
way  laid  by  the  very  gate  of  Alloway-Kirk- 
yard,  in  order  to  cross  the  river  Doon  at  the  old 
bridge,  which  is  about,  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  farther  on  than  the  said  gate,  had  been 
detained  by  his  business,  till  by  the  time  he 
reached  Alloway  it  was  the  wizard  hour,  be- 
tween night  and  morning. 

Though  he  was  terrified  with  a blaze  stream- 
ing from  the  kirk,  yet  as  it  is  a well  known  fact 
that  to  turn  back  on  these  occasions  is  running 
by  far  the  greatest  risk  of  mischief,  he  prudent- 
ly advanced  on  his  road.  When  he  had  reached 
the  gate  of  the  kirk-yard,  he  was  surprised  and 
entertained,  through  the  ribs  and  arches  of  an 
old  Gothic  window,  which  still  faces  the  high- 
way, to  see  a dance  of  witches  merrily  footing  it 
round  their  old  sooty  blackguard  master,  who 
was  keeping  them  all  alive  with  the  power  of 
his  bagpipe.  The  farmer  stopping  his  horse  to 
observe  them  a little,  could  plainly  descry  the 
faces  of  many  old  women  of  his  acquaintance 
and  neighborhood.  How  the  gentleman  was 
dressed,  tradition  does  not  say  ; but  the  ladies 
were  all  in  their  smocks  ; and  one  of  them 
happening  unluckily  to  have  a smock  which 
was  considerably  too  short  to  answer  all  the 
purposes  of  that  piece  of  dress,  our  farmer  was 
so  tickled,  that  he  involuntarily  burst  out,  with 
a loud  laugh,  “ Wee!  Inppen,  Maggy  wi’  the 
short  sark  !”  and  recollecting  himself,  instantly 
spurred  his  horse  to  the  top  of  his  speed.  I 
need  not  mention  the  universally  known  fact, 
that  no  diabolical  power  can  pursue  you  beyond 
the  middle  of  a running  stream.  Lucky  it  was 
for  the  poor  farmer  that  the  river  Doon  w'as  so 
near,  for  notwithstanding  the  speed  of  his  horse, 
which  was  a good  one,  against  he  reached  the 
middle  of  the  arch  of  the  bridge,  and  conse- 
quently the  middle  of  the  stream,  the  pursuing 
vengeful  hags,  were  so  close  at  his  heels,  that  one 


of  them  actually  sprung  to  seize  him  ; but  it  was 
too  late,  nothing  was  on  her  side  of  the  stream 
but  the  horse’s  tail,  which  immediately  gave 
way  at  her  infernal  grip,  as  if  blasted  by  a 
stroke  of  lightning  ; but  the  farmer  was  beyond 
her  reach.  However,  the  unsightly,  tailless 
condition  of  the  vigorous  steed  was,  to  the  last 
hour  of  the  noble  creature’s  life,  an  awful  warn- 
ing to  the  Carrick  farmers,  not  to  stay  too  late 
in  Ayr  markets. 

The  last  relation  I shall  give,  though  equally 
true,  is  not  so  well  identified,  as  the  two  former, 
with  regard  to  the  scene  ; but  as  the  best  au- 
thorities give  it  for  Alloway,  I shall  relate  it. 

On  a summer's  evening,  about  the  time  that 
nature  puts  on  her  sables  to  mourn  the  expiry 
of  the  cheerful  day,  a shepherd  boy  belonging 
to  a farmer  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
Alloway  kirk,  had  just  folded  his  charge,  and 
was  returning  home.  As  he  passed  the  kirk, 
in  the  adjoining  field,  he  fell  in  with  a crew  of 
men  and  women  who  were  busily  pulling  stems 
of  the  plant  Ragwort.  He  observed  that  as 
each  person  pulled  a Ragwort,  he  or  she  got  a 
stride  of  it,  and  called  out,  “ up  horsie  !”  on 
which  the  Ragwort  flew  off  like  Pegasus, 
through  t he  air  with  its  rider.  The  foolish  boy 
likewise  pulled  his  Ragwort,  and  cried  with  the 
rest,  “ up  horsie!’’  and  strange  to  tell,  away 
he  flew  with  the  company.  The  first  stage  at 
which  the  cavalcade  stopped,  was  a merchant’s 
wine  cellar  in  Bourdeaux,  where,  without  say- 
ing by  your  leave,  they  quaffed  away  at  the 
best  the  cellar  could  afford,  until  the  morning, 
foe  to  the  imps  and  works  of  darkness,  threat- 
ened to  throw  light  on  the  matter,  and  frighten- 
ed them  from  their  carousals. 

The  poor  shepherd  lad,  being  equally  a stran- 
ger to  the  scene  and  the  liquor,  heedlessly  got 
himself  drunk  ; and  when  the  rest  took  horse, 
he  fell  asleep,  and  was  found  so  next  day  by 
some  of  the  people  belonging  to  the  merchant. 
Somebody  that  understood  Scotch,  asking  him 
what  he  wras,  he  said  he  was  such-a-one’s  herd 
in  Alloway,  and  by  some  means  or  other  get- 
ting home  again,  he  lived  long  to  tell  the  world 
the  wondrous  tale. 

1 am,  &c.  &c. 


APPENDIX 


No.  I. — Note  A.  See  Life,  p.  2. 

The  importance  of  the  national  establishment 
of  parish-schools  in  Scotland  will  justify  a short 
account  of  the  legislative  provisions  respecting 
it,  especially  as  the  subject  has  escaped  the  no- 
tice of  all  the  historians. 

By  an  act  of  king  (James  V It h)  and  privy 
council  of  the  10th  of  December,  1616,  it  was 
recommended  to  his  bishops  to  deale  and  travel 
with  the  heritors  (land  proprietors,)  and  the  in- 
habitants of  the  respective  parishes  in  their  re- 
pective  diocesses,  towards  the  fixing  upon  ‘ some 
certain,  solid,  and  sure  course”  for  settling  and 
entertaining  a school  in  each  parish.  This  was 
ratified  by  a statute  of  Charles  I.  (the  act  of 
1633,  chap.  5.)  which  empowered  the  bishop, 
with  the  consent  of  the  heritors  of  a parish,  or 
of  a majority  of  the  inhabitants,  if  the  heritors 
refused  to  attend  the  meeting,  to  assess  every 
plough  of  land  (that  is.  every  farm  in  propor- 
tion to  the  number  of  ploughs  upon  it.)  with  a 
certain  sum  for  establishing  a school.  This 
was  an  ineffectual  provision,  as  depending  on 
the  consent  and  pleasure  of  the  heritors  and  in- 
habitants. Therefore  a new  order  of  things 
was  introduced  by  Slat.  1646.  chap.  17.  which 
obliges  the  heritor  and  minister  of  each  parish 
to  meet  and  assess  the  several  heritors  with  the 
requisite  sum  for  building  a school -house,  and 
to  elect  a school-master,  and  modify  a sala- 
ry for  him  in  all  time  to  come.  The  salary  is 
ordered  not  to  be  under  one  hundred,  nor  above 
two  hundred  merks,  that  is,  in  our  present  ster- 
ling money,  not  under  £5  11s.  ljd.  nor  above 
£11  2s.  3d.  and  the  assessment  is  to  be  laid  on 
the  land  in  the  same  proportion  as  it  is  rated  for 
the  support  of  the  clergy,  and  as  it  regulates  the 
payment  of  the  land-tax.  But  in  case  the  heri- 
tors of  any  parish,  or  the  majority  of  them, 
should  tail  to  discharge  this  duty,  then  the  per- 
sons forming  what  is  called  the  Committee  of 
Supply  of  the  county  (consisting  of  the  princi- 
pal land-holders,)  or  any  five  of  them,  are  au- 
thorized by  the  statute  to  impose  the  assess- 
ment instead  of  them,  on  the  representation  of 
the  presbytery  in  which  the  parish  is  siiua'ed. 
To  secure  a choice  of  a proper  teacher,  the 
right  of  election  by  the  heritors,  by  a statute 
passed  in  1693.  rhap.  22,  is  made  subject  to  the 
review  and  control  of  the  presbytery  of  the  dis- 
trict, who  have  the  examination  of  the  person 
profwrsed  committed  to  them,  both  as  to  his 
qualifications  as  a teacher,  and  as  to  his  proper 
deportment  in  the  office  when  settled  in  it. 
The  election  of  the  heritors  is  therefore  only  a 


presentment  of  a person  for  the  approbation  of 
the  presbytery  ; who,  if  they  find  him  unfit, 
may  declare  his  incapacity,  and  thus  oblige 
them  to  elect  anew.  So  far  is  stated  on  unques- 
tionable authority.* 

The  legal  salary  of  the  schoolmaster  was  not 
inconsiderable  at  the  time  it  was  fixed  ; but  by 
the  decrease  in  the  value  of  money,  it  is  now 
certainly  inadequate  to  its  object  ; and  it  is  pain- 
ful to  observe,  that  the  landholders  of  Scotland 
resisted  the  humble  application  of  the  school- 
masters to  the  legislature  for  its  increase,  a few 
years  ago.  The  number  of  parishes  in  Scotland 
is  877  ; and  if  we  allow  the  salary  of  a school- 
master in  each  to  be  on  an  average,  seven 
pounds  sterling,  the  amount  of  the  legal  provis- 
ion will  be  £6,139  sterling.  If  we  suppose 
the  wages  paid  by  the  scholars  to  amount  to 
twice  the  sum,  which  is  probably  beyond  the 
truth,  the  total  of  the  expenses  among  1,526, 
492  persons  (the  whole  population  of  Scotland,) 
of  this  most  important  establishment,  will  be 
£18,417.  But  on  this,  as  well  as  on  other  sub- 
jects respecting  Scotland,  accurate  inlortnation 
may  soon  be  expected  from  Sir  John  Sirclair’a 
Analysis  of  his  Statistics,  which  will  complete 
the  immortal  monument  he  has  reared  to  his 
patriotism. 

The  benefit  arising  in  Scotland  from  the  in- 
struction of  the  poor,  was  soon  felt ; and  by  an 
act  of  the  British  parliament.  4 Geo . 1.  chap.  6, 
it  is  enacted,  “ that  of  the  moneys  arising  from 
the  sile  of  the  Scottish  estates  forfeited  in  the 
rebellion  of  1715  £2.000  sterling  shall  be  con- 
verted into  a capital  stock,  the  interest  of  which 
shall  be  laid  out  in  erecting  and  maintaining 
schools  in  the  Highlands.  The  Society  for 
propagating  Chris'iart  Knowledge,  incorporated 
in  1709,  have  applied  a large  part  of  their  fund 
for  the  same  purpose.  By  their  report,  1st  May, 
1795,  the  annual  sum  employed  by  them,  in 
supporting  their  schools  in  the  Highlands  and 
Islands,  was  £3  913  19s.  10d.,  in  which  are 
taught  the  English  language,  reading  and  wri- 
ting, and  the  principles  of  religion.  The 
schools  of  the  society  arc  additional  to  the  legal 
schools,  which  from  the  great  extent  of  many 
of  the  Highland  parishes,  were  found  insuffi- 
cient. Besides  these  established  schools,  the 
lower  classes  of  people  in  Scotland,  where  the 
parishes  are  large,  often  combine  together,  and 
establish  private  schools  of  their  own,  at  one  of 
which  it  vvas  that  Burns  received  the  principal 


♦The  authority  of  A.  Fraser  Tyller,  and  David 
Ilume,  Esqrs. 


331 


332 


APPENDIX. 


part  of  his  education.  So  convinced  indeed  are 
the  poor  people  of  Scotland,  by  experience,  of 
the  benefit  of  instruction,  to  their  children,  that, 
though  they  may  often  find  it  difficult  to  feed 
and  clothe  them,  some  kind  of  school-instruc- 
tion they  almost  always  procure  them. 

The  influence  of  the  school-establishment  of 
Scotland  on  the  peasantry  of  that  country, 
seems  to  have  decided  by  experience  a question 
of  legislation  of  the  utmost  importance — wheth- 
er a system  of  national  instruction  for  the  poor 
be  favorable  to  morals  and  good  government. 
In  the  year  1698,  Fletcher  of  Salton  declared 
as  follows  : “There  are  at  this  day  in  Scotland, 
two  hundred  thousand  people  begging  from 
door  to  door.  And  though  the  number  of  them 
be  perhaps  double  to  what  it  was  formerly,  by 
reason  of  this  present  great  distress  (a  famine 
then  prevailed  ) yet  in  all  times  there  have  been 
about  one  hundred  thousand  of  those  vagabonds, 
who  have  lived  without  any  regard  or  subjec- 
tion either  to  the  laws  of  the  land,  or  even  those 
of  God  and  nature ; fathers  incestuously  ac- 
companying with  their  own  daughters,  the  son 
with  the  mother,  and  the  brother  with  the  sis- 
ter.” He  goes  on  to  say  ; that  no  magistrate 
ever  could  discover  that  they  had  ever  been  bap- 
tized. or  in  what  way  one  in  a hundred  went 
out  of  the  world.  He  accuses  them  as  frequent- 
ly guilty  of  robbery,  and  sometimes  of  murder: 
“ In  years  of  plenty,”  says  he,  “ many  thou- 
sands of  men  meet  together  in  the  mountains, 
where  they  feast  and  riot  for  many  days;  and 
at  country  weddings,  markets,  burials , and 
other  public  occasions,  they  are  to  be  seen,  both 
men  and  women,  perpetually  drunk,  cursing, 
blaspheming,  and  fighting  together.”*  This 
highminded  statesman,  of  whom  it  is  said  by  a 
contemporary  “ that  he  would  lose  his  life  read- 
ily to  save  his  country,  and  would  not  do  a base 
thing  to  serve  it,”  thought  the  evil  so  great  that 
he  proposed  as  a remedy,  the  revival  of  domes- 
tic slavery,  according  to  the  practice  of  his  ado- 
red republics  in  the  classic  ages  ! A better  re- 
medy has  been  found,  which  in  the  silent  lapse 
of  a century  has  proved  effectual.  The  stat- 
ute of  1696,  the  noble  legacy  of  the  Scottish 
Parliament  to  their  country,  began  soon  after 
this  to  operate ; and  happily,  as  the  minds  of 
the  poor  received  instruction,  the  Union  opened 
new  channels  of  industry,  and  new  fields  of  ac- 
tion to  their  view. 

At  the  present  day  there  is  perhaps  no  coun- 
try in  Europe,  in  which,  in  proportion  to  its 
population,  so  small  a number  of  crimes  fall  un- 
der the  chastisement  of  the  criminal  law,  as 
Scotland.  We  have  the  best  authority  for  as- 
serting, that  on  an  average  of  thirty  years,  pre- 
ceding the  year  1797,  the  executions  in  that  di- 
vision of  the  island  did  not  amount  to  six  annu- 
ally ; and  one  quarter-sessions  for  the  town  of 
Manchester  only,  has  sent,  according  to  Mr. 
Hume,  more  felons  to  the  plantations,  than  all 
the  judges  of  Scotland  usually  do  in  the  space 
of  a year.t  It  might  appear  invidious  to  at- 
tempt a calculation  of  the  many  thousand  indi- 
viduals in  Manchester  and  its  vicinity  who  can 
neither  read  nor  write.  A majority  of  those 
who  can  suffer  the  punishment  of  death  lor 

* Political  Works  of  Andrew  Fletcher,  octavo, 
London. 

I name’s  Commentaries  on  the  Laws  of  Scotland, 
Introduction , p.  50. 


their  crimes  in  every  part  of  England  are,  it  is 
believed,  in  this  miserable  state  of  ignorance. 

There  is  now  a legal  provision  for  parochial 
schools,  or  rather  for  a school  in  each  of  the 
different  townships  into  which  the  country  is  di- 
vided. in  several  of  the  northern  states  of  North 
America.  They  are,  however,  of  recent  origin 
there,  excepting  in  New  England,  where  they 
were  established  in  the  last  century,  probably 
about  the  same  time  as  in  Scotland,  and  by  the 
same  religious  sect.  In  the  Protestant  Cantons 
of  Switzerland,  the  peasantry  have  the  advan- 
tage of  similar  schools,  though  established  and 
endowed  in  a different  manner.  This  is  also 
the  case  in  ceriain  districts  in  England,  particu- 
larly, in  the  northern  part  of  Yorkshire  and  of 
Lancashire,  and  in  the  counties  of  Westmore- 
land and  Cumberland. 

A law,  providing  for  the  instruction  of  the 
poor,  was  passed  by  the  Parliament  of  Ireland  ; 
but  the  fund  was  diverted  from  its  purpose,  and 
the  measure  was  entirely  frustrated.  Proh 
Pudor  ! 

The  similarity  of  character  between  the 
Swiss  and  the  Scotch,  and  between  the  Scotch 
and  the  people  of  New  England,  can  scarcely 
be  overlooked.  That  it  arises  in  a great  meas- 
ure from  the  similarity  of  their  institutions  for 
instruction,  cannot  be  questioned.  It  is  no 
doubt  increased  by  physical  causes.  With  a 
superior  degree  of  instruction,  each  of  these  na- 
tions possesses  a country  that  may  be  said  to  be 
sterile,  in  the  neighborhood  of  countries  com- 
paratively rich.  Hence  emigrations  and  the 
other  effects  on  conduct  and  character  which 
such  circumstances  naturally  produce.  This  sub- 
ject is  in  a high  degree  curious.  The  points  of 
dissimilarity  between  these  nations  might  be 
traced  to  their  causes  also,  and  the  whole  inves- 
tigation would  perhaps  admit  of  an  approach  to 
certainty  in  our  conclusions,  to  which  such  in- 
quiries seldom  lead.  How  much  superior  in 
morals,  in  intellect,  and  in  happiness,  the  peas- 
antry of  those  parts  of  England  are  who  have 
opportunities  of  instruction,  to  the  same  class 
in  other  situations,  those  who  inquire  into  the 
subject  will  speedily  discover.  The  peasantry 
of  Westmoreland,  and  of  the  other  districts 
mentioned  above,  if  their  physical  and  moral 
qualities  be  taken  together,  are,  in  the  opinion 
of  the  Editor,  superior  to  the  peasantry  of  any 
part  of  the  island. 

Note  B.  Seep.  160. 

It  has  been  supposed  that  Scotland  is  less  pop- 
ulous and  less  improved  on  account  of  this  em- 
igration ; but  such  conclusions  are  doubtful,  if 
not  wholly  fallacious.  The  principle  of  popu- 
lation acts  in  no  country  to  the  full  extent  of  its 
power  ; marriage  is  everywhere  retarded  beyond 
the  period  pointed  out  by  nature,  by  the  difficul- 
ty of  supporting  a family  ; and  this  obstacle  is 
greatest  in  long-settled  communities  The  em- 
igration of  a part  of  a people  facilitates  the  mar- 
riage of  the  rest,  by  producing  a relative  in- 
crease in  the  means  of  subsistence.  The  argu- 
ments of  Adam  Smith,  for  a free  export  of  corn, 
are  perhaps  applicable  with  less  exception  to  the 
free  export  of  people.  The  more  certain  the 
vent,  the  greater  cultivation  of  the  soil.  This 
subject  has  been  well  investigated  by  Sir  James 
Stewart,  whose  principles  have  been  expanded 


APPENDIX. 


333 


and  farther  illustrated  in  a late  truly  philosophi- 
cal Essay  on  Population.  In  fact,  Scotland 
has  increased  in  the  number  of  its  inhabitants  in 
the  last  forty  years,  as  the  Statistics  of  Sir  John 
Sinclair  clearly  prove,  but  not  in  the  ratio  that 
some  had  supposed.  The  extent  of  the  emigra- 
tion of  the  Scots  may  be  calculated  with  some 
degree  of  confidence  from  the  proportionate 
number  of  the  two  sexes  in  Scotland  ; a point 
that  may  be  established  pretty  exactly  by  an 
examination  of  the  invaluable  Statistics  already 
mentioned.  If  we  suppose  that  there  is  an 
equal  number  of  male  and  female  natives  of 
Scotland,  alive  somewhere  or  other , the  excess 
by  which  the  females  exceed  the  males  in  their 
own  country,  may  be  considered  to  be  equal  to 
the  number  of  Scotchmen  living  out  of  Scot- 
land. But  though  the  males  born  in  Scotland 
be  admitted  to  be  as  13  to  12,  and  though  some 
of  the  females  emigrate  as  well  as  the  males, 
this  mode  of  calculating  would  probably  make 
the  number  of  expatriated  Scotchmen,  at  any 
one  time  alive,  greater  than  the  truth.  The 
unhealthy  climates  into  which  they  emigrate, 
the  hazardous  services  in  which  so  many  of 
them  engage,  render  the  mean  life  of  those 
who  leave  Scotland  (to  speak  in  the  language 
of  calculators)  not  perhaps  of  half  the  value  of 
the  mean  life  of  those  who  remain. 

Note  C.  See  p.  162. 

In  the  punishment  of  this  offence  the  Church 
employed  formerly  the  arm  of  civil  power. 
During  the  reign  of  James  Vlth  (James  the 
First  of  England,)  criminal  connexion  between 
unmarried  persons  was  made  the  subject  of  a 
particular  statute  {See  Hume's  Commentaries  on 
the  Laws  of  Scotla?id,  Vol.  ii.  p.  332.)  which, 
from  its  rigor,  was  never  much  enforced,  and 
which  has  long  fallen  into  disuse.  When  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  century,  the  Puritans  suc- 
ceeded in  the  overthrow  of  the  monarchy  in 
both  divisions  of  the  island,  fornication  was  a 
crime  against  which  they  directed  their  utmost 
zeal.  It  was  made  punishable  with  death  in 
the  second  instance  {See  Blachstone,  h.  iv.  chap. 
4,  No.  II.)  Happily  this  sanguinary  statute 
was  swept  away  long  ago  with  the  other  acts  of 
the  Commonwealth,  on  the  restoration  of 
Charles  II.  to  whose  temper  and  manners  it 
must  have  been  peculiarly  abhorrent.  And  af- 
ter the  Revolution,  when  several  salutary  acts 
passed  during  the  suspension  of  the  monarchy, 
were  re-enacted  by  the  Scottish  Parliament, 
particularly  that  for  the  establishment  of  parish- 
schools,  the  statute  punishing  fornication  with 
death,  was  suffered  to  sleep  in  the  grave  of 
the  stern  fanatics  who  had  given  it  birth. 

Note  D.  See  p.  163. 

The  legitimation  of  children,  by  subsequent 
marriage,  became  the  Roman  law  under  the 
Christian  emperors.  It  was  the  canon  law  of 
modern  Europe,  and  has  been  established  in 
Scotland  from  a very  remote  period.  Thus  a 
child  born  a bastard,  if  his  parents  afterwards 
marry,  enjoys  all  the  privileges  of  seniority 
over  his  brothers  afterwards  born  in  wedlock. 
In  the  Parliament  of  Merton,  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  III.  the  English  clergy  made  a vigorous 
attempt  to  introduce  this  article  into  the  law  of 
England,  and  it  was  on  this  occasion  that  the 


Barons  made  the  noted  answer,  since  so  often 
appealed  to  ; Quod  nolu?it  leges  Anglia:  mutare; 
quce  hue  usque  usitatce  sunt  approbata:.  With 
regard  to  what  constitutes  a marriage,  the  law 
of  Scotland,  as  explained,  page  163,  differs  Irom 
the  Roman  law,  which  required  the  ceremony 
to  be  performed  in  facie  ecclesice , 


No.  II. 

Note  A.  See  p.  166. 

It  may  interest  some  persons  to  peruse  the 
first  poetical  production  of  our  Bard,  and  it  is 
therefore  extracted  from  a kind  of  common- 
place-book, which  he  seems  to  have  begun  in 
his  twentieth  year;  and  which  he  entitled, 

Observations , Hints,  Songs,  Scraps  of  Poetry, 
<$-c.  by  Robert  Burness,  a man  who  had  little 
art  in  making  money,  and  still  less  in  keeping 
it ; but  was.  however,  a man  of  some  sense,  a 
great  deal  of  honesty,  and  unbounded  good  will 
to  every  creature,  rational  or  irrational.  As  he 
was  but  little  indebted  to  scholastic  education, 
and  bred  at  a plough-tail,  his  performances 
must  be  strongly  tinctured  with  his  unpolished 
rustic  way  of  life  ; but  as,  I believe  they  are 
really  his  own,  it  may  be  some  entertainment 
to  a curious  observer  of  human  nature,  to  see 
how  a ploughman  thinks  and  feels,  under  the 
pressure  of  love,  ambition,  anxiety,  grief,  with 
the  like  cares  and  passions,  which  however  di- 
versified by  the  modes  and  manners  of  life,  op- 
erate pretty  much  alike,  I believe,  in  all  the 
species.” 

“ Pleasing  when  youth  is  long  expired,  to  trace 
The  forms  our  pencil  or  our  pen  design’d, 

Such  was  our  youthful  air,  and  shape,  and  face, 
Such  the  soft  image  of  the  youthful  mind.” 
Shenstone. 

This  MS.  book,  to  which  our  poet  prefixed 
this  account  of  himself,  and  of  his  intention  in 
preparing  it,  contains  several  of  his  earlier  po- 
ems, some  as  they  were  printed,  and  others  in 
their  embryo  state.  The  6ong  alluded  to  is 
that  beginning, 

O once  I loved  a honnie  lass, 

Ah,  and  I love  her  still. 

See  Poems , p.  59. 

Tt  must  be  confessed  that  this  song  gives  no 
indication  of  the  future  genius  of  Burns;  but 
he  himself  seems  to  have  been  fond  of  it,  pro- 
bably from  the  recollections  it  excited. 

Note  B.  See  p.  168. 

At  the  time  that  our  poet  took  the  resolution 
of  becoming  wise,  he  procured  a little  book  of 
blank  paper,  with  the  purpose  (expressed  on  the 
first  page)  of  making  farming  memorandums 
upon  it.  These  farming  memorandums  are 
curious  enough ; many  of  them  have  been 
written  with  a pencil,  and  are  now  obliterated, 
or  at  least  illegible.  A considerable  number 
are  however  legible,  and  a specimen  may  grati- 
fy the  reader.  It  must  be  premised,  that  the 
poet  kept  the  book  by  him  several  years — that 
he  wrote  upon  it,  here  and  there,  with  the  ut- 
most irregularity,  and  that  on  the  same  gage 
are  notations  very  distant  from  each  other  as  to 
time  and  place. 


APPENDIX. 


3te 


EXTEMPORE. 

April , 1782. 

O why  the  deuce  should  I repine 
And  be  an  ill  foreboder  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  124. 


FRAGMENT.  Tune ‘ Donald  Blue.’ 

O leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles. 

Ye’re  safer  at  your  spinning  wheel  ; 

See  Poems , p.  114. 


For  he’s  far  aboon  Dunkel  the  night 
Maun  white  the  slick  and  a’  that. 

Mem.  To  get  for  Mr.  Johnson  these  two 
Songs:  “ Molly,  Molly,  my  dear  honey." 

“ The  cock  and  the  hen,  the  deer  in  her  derif'fyc. 


Ah!  Chloris  ! Sir  Peter  Halket,  of  Pitferran, 
the  author.  Nota,  he  married  her — the  heiress 
of  Pitferran. 

Colonel  George  Crawford,  the  author  of 
Down  the  burn  Davy. 

Pinky-house,  by  J.  Mitchell. 

My  apron  Deary  ! and  Amynta,  by  Sir  G. 
Elliot. 

Willie  was  a v>anton  Wag,  was  made  on 
Walkinshaw,  of  Walkinshaw,  near  Paisley, 

lloenaa  laddie  butane,  Mr.  Clunzee, 

The  bonnie  wee  thing — beautiful — Lundie's 
Dream — very  beautiful. 

He  till't  and  she  till't — assez  bien. 

Armstrong's  Farewell — fine. 

The  author  of  the  Highland  Queen  was  a Mr. 
M’lver,  Purser  of  the  Solboy. 

Fife  an'  a'  the  land  about  it,  R.  Fergusson. 

The  author  of  The  bush  aboun  Traquair,  was 
a Dr.  Stewart. 

Polwart  on  the  Green,  composed  by  Captain 
John  Drummond  M’Grigor  of  Bochaldie. 

Mem.  To  inquire  if  Mrs.  Cochburn  was  the 
author  of  I hae  seen  thee  smiling , &c. 

* * * * 

The  above  may  serve  as  a specimen.  All 
the  notes  on  farming  are  obliterated. 

Note  C.  See  p.  179,  180. 

Pules  and  regulations  to  be  observed  in  the 
Bachelor's  Club. 

1st.  The  club  shall  meet  at  Tarbolton  every 
fourth  Monday  night,  when  a question  on  any 
subject  shall  be  proposed,  disputed  points  of  re- 
ligion, only  excepted,  in  the  manner  hereafter 
directed  ; which  question  is  to  be  debated  in 
the  club,  each  member  taking  whatever  side  he 
thinks  proper. 

2d.  When  the  club  is  met,  the  president,  or, 
he  failing,  some  one  of  the  members,  till  he 
come,  shall  take  his  seat ; then  the  other  mem- 
bers shall  seat  themselves  : those  who  are  for 
one  side  of  the  question,  on  the  president's 
right  hand ; and  those  who  are  for  the  other 
side  on  his  left  ; which  of  them  shall  have  the 
right  hand  is  to  be  determined  by  the  president. 
The  president  and  four  of  the  members  being 
present,  shall  have  power  to  transact  any  ordi- 
nary part  of  the  society’s  business. 

3d.  The  club  met  and  seated,  the  president 
shall  read  the  question  out  of  the  club’s  book 
of  records,  (which  book  is  always  to  be  kept 
by  the  president,)  then  the  two  members  near- 


est the  president  shall  cast  lots  who  of  them 
shall  speak  first,  and  according  as  the  lot  shall 
determine,  the  member  nearest  the  president 
on  that  side  shall  deliver  his  opinion,  and  the 
member  nearest  on  the  other  side  shall  reply  to 
him ; then  the  second  member  of  the  side  that 
spoke  first ; then  the  second  member  of  the 
side  that  spoke  second  ; and  so  on  to  the  end 
of  the  company  ; but  if  there  be  fewer  mem- 
bers on  one  side  than  on  the  other,  when  all  the 
members  of  the  least  side  have  spoken  accord- 
ing to  their  places,  any  of  them,  as  they  please 
among  themselves,  may  reply  to  the  remaining 
members  of  the  opposite  side : when  both  sides 
have  spoken,  the  president  shall  give  his  opin- 
ion, after  which  they  may  go  over  it  a second 
or  more  times,  and  so  continue  the  question. 

4th.  The  club  shall  then  proceed  to  the 
choice  of  a question  for  the  subject  of  next  night’s 
meeting.  The  president  shall  first  propose  one, 
and  any  other  member  who  chooses  may  pro- 
pose more  questions ; and  whatever  one  of  them 
is  most  agreeable  to  the  majority  of  members, 
shall  be  the  subject  of  debate  next  club- night. 

5th.  The  club  shall,  lastly,  elect  a new  pres- 
ident for  the  next  meeting:  the  president  shall 
first  name  one,  then  any  of  the  club  may  name 
another,  and  whoever  of  them  has  the  majority 
of  votes  shall  be  duly  elected  ; allowing  the 
president  the  first  vote,  and  the  casting  vote 
upon  a par,  but  none  other.  Then  alter  a 
general  toast  to  mistresses  of  the  club,  they 
shall  dismiss. 

6th.  There  shall  be  no  private  conversa- 
tion carried  on  during  the  time  of  debate, 
nor  shall  any  member  interrupt  another  while 
he  is  speaking,  under  the  penalty  of  a rep- 
rimand from  the  president  for  the  first  fault, 
doubling  his  share  of  the  reckoning  for  the  sec- 
ond, trebling  it  for  the  third,  and  so  on  in  pro- 
portion lor  every  other  fault,  provided  alway, 
however,  that  any  member  may  speak  at  any 
time  after  leave  asked,  and  given  by  the  presi- 
dent. All  swearing  and  profane  language,  and 
particularly  all  obscene  and  indecent  conversa- 
tion, is  strictly  prohibited,  under  the  same  pen- 
alty as  aforesaid  in  the  first  clause  of  this  article. 

7th.  No  member,  on  any  pretence  whatever, 
shall  mention  any  of  the  club’s  affairs  to  any 
other  person  but  a brother  member,  under  the 
pain  of  being  excluded  ; and  particularly  if  any 
member  shall  reveal  any  of  the  speeches  or  af- 
fairs of  the  club,  with  a view  to  ridicule  or 
laugh  at  any  of  the  rest  of  the  members,  he 
shall  be  forever  excommunicated  from  the  soci- 
ety ; and  the  rest  of  the  members  are  desired, 
as  much  as  possible,  to  avoid,  and  have  no 
communication  with  him  as  a friend  or  com- 
rade. 

8th.  Every  member  shall  attend  at  the  meet- 
ings, without  he  can  give  a proper  excuse  for 
not  attending  ; and  it  is  desired  that  every  one 
who  cannot  attend  will  send  his  excuse  with 
some  other  member : and  he  who  shall  be  absent 
three  meetings  without  sending  such  excuse, 
shall  be  summoned  to  the  club-night,  when  if 
he  fail  to  appear,  or  send  an  excuse,  he  shall  be 
excluded. 

9th.  The  club  shall  not  consist  of  more  than 
sixteen  members,  all  bachelors,  belonging  to 
the  parish  of  Tarbolton : except  a brother 
member  marry,  and  in  that  case  he  may  be 
continued,  if  the  majority  of  the  club  think 


APPENDIX. 


335 


proper.  No  person  shall  be  admitted  a mem-  I 
ber  of  this  society,  without  the  unanimous 
consent  of  the  club;  and  any  member  may 
withdraw  from  the  club  altogether,  by  giving  a 
notice  to  the  president  in  writing  of  his  de- 
parture. 

10th.  Every  man  proper  for  a member  of 
this  society,  must  have  a frank,  honest,  open 
heart ; above  any  thing  dirty  or  mean  ; and 
must  be  a profest  lover  of  one  or  more  of  the  fe- 
male sex.  No  haughty,  self- conceited  person,  ' 
who  looks  upon  himself  as  superior  to  the  rest 
of  the  club,  and  especially  no  mean-spirited, 
worldly  mortal,  whose  only  will  is  to  heap  up 
money,  shall  upon  any  pretence  whatever  be 
admitted.  In  short,  the  proper  person  for  this 
society  is,  a cheerful,  honest  hearted  lad,  who, 
if  he  has  a friend  that  is  true,  and  a mistress 
that  is  kind,  and  as  much  wealth  as  genteelly 
to  make  both  ends  meet — is  just  as  happy  as 
this  world  can  make  him. 

Note  D.  Seep.  217. 

A great  number  of  manuscript  poems  were 
found  among  the  papers  of  Burns,  addressed  to 
him  by  admirers  of  his  genius,  from  different 
parts  of  Britain,  as  well  as  from  Ireland  and 
America.  Among  these  was  a poetical  epistle 
from  Mr.  Telford,  of  Shrewsbury,  of  superior 
merit.  It  is  written  in  the  dialect  of  Scotland 
(of  which  country  Mr.  Telford  is  a native,)  and 
in  the  versification  generally  employed  by  our 
oet  himself.  Its  object  is  to  recommend  to 
im  other  subjects  of  a serious  nature,  similar 
to  that  of  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  ; and 
the  reader  will  find  that  the  advice  is  happily 
enforced  by  example.  It  would  have  given  the 
editor  pleasure  to  have  inserted  the  whole  of 
this  poem,  which  he  hopes  will  one  day  see 
the  light : he  is  happy  to  have  obtained,  in  the 
mean  time,  his  friend  Mr.  Telford’s  permission 
to  insert  the  following  extracts  : 

******* 

Pursue,  O Burns!  thy  happy  style, 

“Those  manner-painting  strains,”  that  while 
They  bear  me  northward  mony  a mile, 

Recall  the  days, 

When  tender  joys,  with  pleasing  smile, 

Bless’d  my  young  ways. 

I see  my  fond  companions  rise, 

I join  the  happy  village  joys, 

I see  our  green  hills  touch  the  skies, 

And  through  the  woods, 

I hear  the  river’s  rushing  noise, 

Its  roaring  floods.* 

No  distant  Swiss  with  warmer  glow, 

E’er  heard  his  native  music  flow, 

Nor  could  his  wishes  stronger  grow. 

Than  still  have  mine, 

When  up  this  ancient  mountt  I go, 

With  songs  of  thine. 

O happy  Bard  ! thy  gen’rous  flame 
Was  given  to  raise  thy  country’s  fame  ; 

For  this  thy  charming  numbers  came — 

Thy  matchless  lays ; 

* The  banks  of  Esk  in  Dumfries- shire,  are  here 
alluded  to. 

t A beautiful  little  mount,  which  stands  immedi- 
ately before,  or  rather  forms  a part  of  Shrewsbury 
castle,  a seat  of  Sir  William  Pulteney,  baronet. 


Then  sing,  and  save  her  virtuous  name, 

To  latest  days. 

But  mony  a theme  awaits  thy  muse, 

Fine  as  thy  Cotter’s  sacred  views, 

Then  in  such  verse  thy  soul  infuse, 

With  holy  air  ; 

And  sing  the  course  the  pious  choose, 

With  all  thy  care. 

How  with  religious  awe  impressed, 

They  open  lay  the  guileless  breast, 

And  youth  and  age  with  fears  distress’d, 

All  due  prepare, 

The  symbols  of  eternal  rest 

Devout  to  share.* 

How  down  ilk  lang  withdrawing  hill, 
Successive  crowds  the  valleys  fill ; 

While  pure  religious  converse  still 
Beguiles  the  way, 

And  gives  a cast  to  youthful  will, 

To  suit  the  day. 

How  placed  along  the  sacred  board, 

Their  hoary  pastor’s  looks  adored, — 

His  voice  with  peace  and  blessing  stored, 

Sent  from  above  ; 

And  faith,  and  hope,  and  joy  afford, 

And  boundless  love. 

O’er  this,  with  warm  seraphic  glow, 
Celestial  beings,  pleased  bow  ; 

And,  whisper’d,  hear  the  holy  vow, 

’Mid  grateful  tears ; 

And  mark  amid  such  scenes  below, 

Their  future  peers. 

* * * * 

0 mark  the  awful  solemn  scene  !t 
When  hoary  winter  clothes  the  plain, 

Along  the  snowy  hills  is  seen 

Approaching  slow, 

In  mourning  weeds,  the  village  train, 

In  silent  wo. 

Some  much  respected  brother’s  bier 
(By  turns  the  pious  task  they  share) 

With  heavy  hearts  they  forward  bear 
Along  the  path, 

Where  nei’bours  saw  in  dusky  air, t 
The  light  of  death. 

And  when  they  pass  the  rocky  how', 

Where  binwood  bushes  o’er  them  flow, 

And  move  around  the  rising  knovve, 

Where  far  away 

The  kirk-yard  trees  are  seen  to  grow, 

By  th’  water  brae. 

Assembled  round  the  narrow  grave. 

While  o’er  them  wintery  tempests  rave, 

In  the  cold  wind  their  gray  locks  wave, 

As  low  they  lay 

Theii"  brother’s  body  ’mongst  the  lave 
Of  parent  clay. 

Expressive  looks  from  each  declare 
The  griefs  within,  their  bosoms  bear  ; 

* The  Sacrament,  generally  administered  in  the 
country  parishes  of  Scotland  in  the  open  air. 

t A Scotch  funeral. 

X This  alludes  to  a superstition  prevalent  in  Esk- 
dale,  and  Annandale,  that  a light  precedes  in  the 
night  every  funeral,  marking  the  precise  path  it  is 
to  pass.  E. 


w a 


APPENDIX. 


336 

One  holy  bow  devout  they  share, 

Then  home  return. 

And  think  o’er  all  the  virtues  fair 

Of  him  they  mourn. 

* * * * 

Say  how  by  early  lessons  taught, 

(Truth’s  pleasing  air  is  willing  caught) 
Congenial  to  th’  untainted  thought, 

The  shepherd  boy. 

Who  tends  his  flocks  on  lonely  height, 

Feels  holy  joy. 

Is  aught  on  earth  so  lovely  known, 

On  Sabbath  morn  and  far  alone, 

His  guileless  soul  all  naked  shown 
Before  his  God — 

Such  pray’rs  must  welcome  reach  the  throne, 
And  bless’d  abode. 

To  tell ! with  what  a heartfelt  joy, 

The  parent  eyes  the  virtuous  boy  ; 

And  all  his  constant,  kind  employ, 

Is  how  to  give 

The  best  of  lear  he  can  enjoy, 

As  means  to  live. 

The  parish-school,  its  curious  site, 

The  master  who  can  clear  indite, 

And  lead  him  on  to  count  and  write, 

Demand  thy  care  ; 

Nor  pass  the  ploughman’s  school  at  night 
Without  a share. 

Nor  yet  the  tenty  curious  lad, 

Who  o’er  the  ingle  hings  his  head, 

And  begs  of  nei’bors  books  to  read  ; 

For  hence  arise 

Thy  country’s  sons,  who  far  are  spread, 

Baith  bauld  and  wise. 

* % * * 

The  bonnie  lasses,  as  they  spin, 

Perhaps  with  Allan's  sangs  begin, 

How  Tay  and  Tweed  smooth  flowing  rin 
Through  flowery  hows  ; 
Where  Shepherd  lads  their  sweethearts  win 
With  earnest  vows. 

Or  may  be,  Burns,  thy  thrilling  page 
May  a’  their  virtuous  thoughts  engage, 

While  playful  youth  and  placid  age 
In  concert  join, 

To  bless  the  bard,  who  gay  or  sage, 

Improves  the  mind. 


Long  may  their  harmless,  simple  ways, 
Nature’s  own  pure  emotions  raise  ; 

May  still  the  dear  romantic  blaze 
Of  purest  love, 

Their  bosoms  warm  to  latest  days, 

And  ay  improve. 

May  still  each  fond  attachment  glow, 

O’er  woods,  o’er  streams,  o’er  hills  of  snow, 
May  rugged  rocks  still  dearer  grow  ; 

And  may  their  souls 

Even  love  the  warlock  glens  which  through 
The  tempest  howls. 

To  eternize  such  themes  as  these, 

And  all  their  happy  manner  seize, 

Will  every  virtuous  bosom  please ; 

And  high  in  fame 


| To  future  times  will  justly  raise 

Thy  patriot  name. 

While  all  the  venal  tribes  decay, 

That  bask  in  flattery’s  flaunting  ray — 

The  noisome  vermin  of  a day, 

Thy  works  shall  gain 
O’er  every  mind  a boundless  sway, 

A lasting  reign. 

When  winter  binds  the  harden’d  plains, 
Afound  each  hearth,  the  hoary  swains 
Still  teach  the  rising  youth  thy  strains  ; 

And  anxious  say, 

Our  blessing  with  our  sons  remains, 

And  Burns’s  Lay  ! 


No.  III. 

( First  inserted  in  the  Second  Edition.) 

The  editor  has  particular  pleasure  in  present- 
ing to  the  public  the  following  letter,  to  the  due 
understanding  of  which  a few  previous  observa- 
tions are  necessary. 

The  Biographer  of  Burns  was  naturally  de- 
sirous of  hearing  the  opinion  of  the  friend 
and  brother  of  the  poet,  on  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  executed  his  task,  before  a sec- 
ond edition  should  be  committed  to  the  press. 
He  had  the  satisfaction  of  receiving  this  opin- 
ion, in  a letter  dated  the  24th  of  August,  ap- 
proving of  the  Life  in  very  obliging  terms,  and 
offering  one  or  two  trivial  corrections  as  to 
names  and  dates  chiefly,  which  are  made  in 
this  edition.  One  or  two  observations  were  of- 
fered of  a different  kind.  In  the  319th  page  of 
the  first  volume,  first  edition,  a quotation  is 
made  from  the  pastoral  song,  Ettrick  Banks. 
and  an  explanation  given  of  the  phrase  “ mony 
feck,”  which  occurs  in  this  quotation.  Suppo- 
sing the  sense  to  be  complete  alter  “ mony,” 
the  editor  had  considered  “ feck”  a rustic  oath 
which  confirmed  the  assertion.  The  words 
were  therefore  separated  by  a comma.  Mr. 
Burns  considered  this  an  error.  “ Feck,”  he 
presumes,  is  the  Scottish  word  for  quantity, 
and  “ mony  feck,”  to  mean  simply,  very  many. 
The  editor  in  yielding  to  this  authority,  express- 
ed some  hesitation,  and  hinted  that  the  phrase 
“ mony  feck”  was,  in  Burns’s  sense,  a pleon- 
asm or  barbarism  which  deformed  this  beautiful 
song.*  His  reply  to  this  observation  makes 
the  first  clause  of  the  following  letter. 

In  the  same  communication  he  informed  me, 
that  the  Mirror  and  the  Lounger  were  proposed 
by  him  to  the  Conversation  Club  of  Mauchline, 
and  that  he  had  thoughts  of  giving  me  his  sen- 
timents on  the  remarks  I had  made  respecting 
the  fitness  of  such  works  for  such  societies. 
The  observations  of  such  a man  on  such  a sub- 
ject, the  Fiditor  conceived,  would  be  received 
with  particular  interest  by  the  public  ; and  hav- 
ing pressed  earnestly  for  them,  they  will  be 
found  in  the  following  letter.  Of-the  value  of 
this  communication,  delicacy  towards  his  very 

* The  correction  made  by  Gilbert  Burns  has  also 
been  suggested  by  a writer  in  the  Monthly  Maga- 
zine, under  the  signature  of  Albion:  who.  for  taking 
this  trouble,  and  for  mentioning  the  author  of  the 
poem  of  Donnocht-head,  deserves  the  Editor's 
thanks. 


APPENDIX. 


337 


respectable  correspondent  prevents  him  from  1 
expressing  his  opinion.  The  original  letter  is 
in  the  hands  of  Messrs.  Caddell  and  Davies. 

Dinning , Dumfries -shire,  24 th  Oct.  1800. 
Dear  Sir, 

Yours  of  the  17th  inst.  came  to  my  hand 
yesterday,  and  I sit  down  this  afternoon  to 
write  you  in  return  : but  when  I shall  be  able 
to  finish  all  I wish  to  say  to  you,  I cannot  tell. 

1 am  sorry  your  conviction  is  not  complete  re- 
specting feck.  There  is  no  doubt,  that  if  you 
take  two  English  words  which  appear  synony- 
mous to  mony  feck , and  judge  by  the  rules  of 
English  construction,  it  will  appear  a barbar- 
ism. 1 believe  if  you  take  this  mode  of  trans- 
lating from  any  language,  the  effect  will  fre- 
quently be  the  same.  But  if  you  take  the  ex- 
pression mony  feck  to  have,  as  i have  stated  it. 
the  same  meaning  with  the  English  expression 
very  many  (and  such  licence  every  translator 
must  be  allowed,  especially  when  he  translates 
from  a simple  dialect  which  has  never  been 
subjected  to  rule,  and  where  the  precise  mean- 
ing of  words  is  of  consequence  not  minutely 
attended  to,)  it  will  be  well  enough.  One  thing 
I am  certain  of,  that  ours  is  the  sense  univer- 
sally understood  in  the  co-untry ; and  I believe 
no  Scotsman,  who  has  lived  contented  at  home, 
pleased  with  the  simple  manners,  the  simple 
melodies,  and  the  simple  dialect  of  his  native 
country,  unvitiated  by  foreign  intercourse, 

“ whose  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to 
stray,”  ever  discovered  barbarism  in  the  song 
of  Ettrick  Banks. 

The  story  you  have  heard  of  the  gable  of  my 
father’s  house  falling  down,  is  simply  as  fol- 
lows:*— When  my  father  built  his  “ clay  big- 
gin,” he  put  in  two  stone  jambs,  as  they  are 
called,  and  a lintel,  carrying  up  a chimney  in 
his  clay  gable.  The  consequence  was,  that  as 
the  gable  subsided,  the  jambs  remaining  firm, 
threw  it  off  its  centre  ; and,  one  very  stormy 
morning,  when  my  brother  was  nine  or  ten 
years  old,  a little  before  daylight  a part  of  the 
gable  fell  out,  and  the  rest  appeared  so  shatter- 
ed, that  my  mother  with  the  young  poet,  had 
to  be  carried  through  the  storm  to  a neighbor’s 
house,  where  they  remained  a week,  till  their 
own  dwelling  was  adjusted.  That  you  may 
not  think  too  meanly  of  this  house,  or  my  fath- 
er’s taste  in  building,  by  supposing  the  poet’s 
description  in  The  Vision  (which  is  entirely  a 
fancy  picture)  applicable  to  it,  allow  me  to  take 
notice  to  you,  that  the  house  consisted  of  a 
kitchen  in  one  end,  and  a room  in  the  other, 
with  a fire  place  and  chimney  ; that  my  father 
had  constructed  a concealed  bed  in  the  kitchen, 
with  a small  closet  at  the  end,  of  the  same  ma- 
terials with  the  house  ; and  when  altogether 
cast  over,  outside  and  in,  with  lime,  it  had  a 
neat  comfortable  appearance,  such  as  no  family 
of  the  same  rank,  in  the  present  improved 
style  of  living,  would  think  themselves  ill-lodg- 
ed in.  I wish  likewise  to  take  notice,  in  pass- 
ing, that  although  the  “ Cotter,”  in  the  Satur- 
day Night,  is  an  exact  copy  of  my  father  in  his 
manners,  his  family-devotion,  and  exhortations, 
yet  the  other  parts  of  the  description  do  not  ap- 

• The  Editor  had  heard  a report  that  the  poet  was 
born  in  the  midst  of  a storm  which  blew  down  a 
part  of  the  house.  E. 

22 


ply  to  our  family.  None  of  us  were  ever  “ at 
service  out  amang  the  neebors  roun.”  Instead 
of  our  depositing  our  “ sairwon  penny  fee” 
with  our  parents,  my  father  labored  hard,  and 
lived  with  the  most  rigid  economy,  that  he 
might  be  able  to  keep  his  children  at  home, 
thereby  having  an  opportunity  of  watching  the 
progress  of  our  young  minds,  and  forming  in 
them  earlier  habits  of  piety  and  virtue ; and  irom 
this  motive  alone  did  he  engage  in  farming,  the 
source  of  all  his  difficulties  and  distresses. 

When  I threatened  you  in  my  last  with  a 
long  letter  on  the  subject  oCthe  books  I recom- 
mended to  the  Mauchline  club,  and  the  effects 
of  refinement  of  taste  on  the  laboring  classes 
of  men,  I meant  merely,  that  I wished  to 
write  you  on  that  subject  with  the  view  that, 
in  some  future  communication  to  the  public, 
you  might  take  up  the  subject  more  at  large  ; 
that,  by  means  of  your  happy  manner  of  wri- 
ting, the  attention  of  people  of  power  and  in- 
fluence might  be  fixed  on  it.  I had  little  expec- 
tation, however,  that  I should  overcome  my  in- 
dolence, and  the  difficulty  of  arranging  my 
thoughts  so  far  as  to  put  my  threat  in  execu- 
tion ; till  some  time  ago,  before  I had  finished 
my  harvest,  having  a call  from  Mr.  Ewart,* 
with  a message  from  you,  pressing  rne  to  the 
performance  of  this  task,  1 thought  myself  no 
longer  at  liberty  to  decline  it,  and  resolved  to 
set  about  it  with  my  first  leisure.  I will  now 
therefore  endeavor  to  lay  before  you  what  has 
occurred  to  my  mind,  on  a subject  where  peo- 
ple capable  of  observation  and  of  placing  their 
remarks  in  a proper  point  of  view,  have  seldom 
an  opportunity  of  making  their  remarks  on 
real  life.  In  doing  this,  I may  perhaps  be  led 
sometimes  to  write  more  in  the  manner  of  a 
person  communicating  information  to  you  which 
you  did  not  know  before,  and  at  other  times 
more  in  the  style  of  egotism,  than  I would 
choose  to  do  to  any  person,  in  whose  candor, 
and  even  personal  good  will,  I had  less  confi- 
dence. 

There  are  two  several  lines  of  study  that 
open  to  every  man  as  be  enters  life  : the  one, 
the  general  science  of  life,  of  duty,  and  of  hap- 
piness ; the  other,  the  particular  arts  of  his  em- 
ployment or  situation  in  society,  and  the  sever- 
al branches  of  knowledge  therewith  connected. 
This  last  is  certainly  indispensable,  as  nothing 
can  be  more  disgraceful  than  ignorance  in  the 
way  of  one’s  own  profession  ; and  whatever  a 
man’s  speculative  knowledge  may  be,  if  he  is 
ill-informed  there,  he  can  neither  be  a useful 
nor  a respectable  member  of  society.  It  is  never- 
theless true,  that  “the  proper  study  of  mankind 
is  man;”  to  consider  what  duties  are  incum- 
bent on  him  as  a rational  creature,  and  a mem- 
ber of  society  ; how  he  may  increase  or  secure 
his  happiness : and  how  he  may  prevent  or  sof- 
ten the  tnany  miseries  incident  to  human  life.  I 
think  the  pursuit  of  happiness  is  too  frequently 
confined  to  the  endeavor  after  the  acquisition 
of  wealth.  I do  not  wish  to  be  considered  as 
an  idle  declaimer  against  riches,  which,  after  all 
that  can  be  said  against  them,  will  still  be  con- 
sidered by  men  of  common  sense  as  objects  of 
importance  ; and  poverty  will  be  felt  as  a sore 
evil,  after  all  the  fine  things  that  can  be  said  of 
its  advantages ; on  the  contrary,  I am  of  opin- 

*The  Editor’s  friend,  Mr.  Peter  Ewart,  of  Man?- 
Chester.  E. 


338 


APPENDIX. 


ion,  that  a great  proportion  of  the  miseries  of 
life  arise  from  the  want  of  economy,  and  a pru- 
dent attention  to  money,  or  the  ill-directfed  or 
intemperate  pursuit  of  it.  But  however  valua- 
ble riches  may  be  as  the  means  of  comfort,  in- 
dependence, and  the  pleasure  of  doing  good  to 
others,  yet  I am  of  opinion,  that  they  may  be, 
and  frequently  are,  purchased  at  too  great  a 
cost,  and  that  sacrifices  are  made  in  the  pursuit, 
which  the  acquisition  cannot  compensate.  I 
remember  hearing  my  worthy  teacher,  Mr. 
Murdoch,  relate  an  anecdote  to  my  father, 
which  I think  sets  this  matter  in  a strong 
light,  and  perhaps  was  the  origin,  or  at  least  ten- 
ded to  promote  this  way  of  thinking  in  me. 
When  Mr.  Murdoch  left  Alloway,  he  went  to 
teach  and  reside  in  the  family  of  an  opulent  far- 
mer, who  had  a number  of  sons.  A neighbor 
coming  on  a visit,  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion, asked  the  father  how  he  meant  to  dispose 
of  his  sons.  The  father  replied,  that  he  had  not 
determined.  The  visitor  said,  that  were  he  in 
his  place  he  would  give  them  all  good  educa- 
tion and  send  them  abroad,  without  (perhaps) 
having  a precise  idea  where.  The  faiher  ob- 
jected, that  many  young  men  lost  their  health 
in  foreign  countries,  and  many  their  lives. 
True,  replied  the  visitor,  but  as  you  have  a 
number  of  sons,  it  will  be  strange  if  some  one 
of  them  does  not  live  and  make  a fortune. 

Let  any  person  who  has  the  feelings  of  a 
father,  comment  on  this  story  ; but  though  few 
will  avow,  even  to  themselves,  that  such  views 
govern  their  conduct,  yet  do  we  not  daily  see 
people  shipping  off  their  sons  (and  who  would 
do  so  by  their  daughters  also,  if  there  were  any 
demand  for  them,)  that  they  may  be  rich  or 
perish  ? 

The  education  of  the  lower  classes  is  seldom 
considered  in  any  other  point  of  view  than  as 
the  means  of  raising  them  from  that  station  to 
which  they  were  born,  and  of  making  a for- 
tune. I am  ignorant  of  the  mysteries  of  the 
art  of  acquiring  a fortune  without  anything  to 
begin  with ; and  cannot  calculate,  with  any 
degree  of  exactness,  the  difficulties  to  be  sur- 
mounted, the  mortifications  to  be  suffered,  and 
the  degradation  of  character  to  be  submitted  to, 
in  lending  one’s  self  to  be  the  minister  of  oth- 
er people’s  vices,  or  in  the  practice  of  rapine, 
fraud,  oppression,  or  dissimulation,  in  the  pro- 
gress ; but  even  when  the  wished- for  end  is  at- 
tained, it  may  be  questioned  whether  happiness 
be  much  increased  by  the  change.  When  I 
have  seen  a fortunate  adventurer  of  the  lower 
ranks  of  life  returned  from  the  East  or  West 
Indies,  with  all  the  hauteur  of  a vulgar  mind 
accustomed  to  be  served  by  slaves  ; assuming 
a character  which  from  the  early  habits  of  life, 
he  is  ill-fitted  to  support  ; displaying  magnifi- 
cence which  raises  the  envy  of  some,  and  the 
contempt  of  others  ; claiming  an  equity  with 
the  great.,  which  they  are  unwilling  to  allow  ; 
inly  pining  at  the  precedence  of  the  hereditary 
gentry  ; maddened  by  the  polished  insolence  of 
some  of  the  unworthy  part  of  them  ; seeking 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  men  who  can  conde- 
scend to  flatter  him,  and  listen  to  his  absurdity 
for  the  sake  of  a good  dinner  and  good  wine  : I 
cannot  avoid  concluding,  that  his  brother,  or 
companion,  who,  by  a diligent  application  to 
the  labors  of  agriculture,  or  some  useful  me- 
chanic employment,  and  the  careful  husbanding 


of  his  gains,  has  acquired  a competence  in  his 
station,  is  a much  happier,  and,  in  the  eye  of  a 
person  who  can  take  an  enlarged  view  of  man- 
kind, a much  more  respectable  man. 

But  the  votaries  of  wealth  may  be  considered 
as  a great  number  of  candidates  striving  for  a 
few  prizes : and  whatever  addition  the  success- 
ful may  make  to  their  pleasure  or  happiness, 
the  disappointed  will  always  have  more  to  suf- 
fer, I am  afraid,  than  those  who  abide  conten- 
ted in  the  station  to  which  they  were  born.  I 
wish,  therefore,  the  education  of  the  lower 
classes  to  be  promoted  and  directed  to  their  im- 
provement as  men,  as  the  means  of  increasing 
their  virtue,  and  opening  to  them  new  and  dig- 
nified sources  of  pleasure  and  happiness.  1 have 
heard  some  people  object  to  the  education  of 
the  lower  classes  of  men,  as  rendering  them 
less  useful,  by  abstracting  them  from  their  pro- 
per business  ; others,  as  tending  to  make  them 
saucy  to  their  superiors,  impatient  of  their  con- 
dition, and  turbulent  subjects  ; while  you,  with 
more  humanity,  have  your  fears  alarmed,  lest 
the  delicacy  of  mind,  induced  by  that  sort  of 
education  and  reading  I recommend,  should 
render  the  evils  of  their  situation  insupportable 
to  them.  I wish  to  examine  the  validity  of  each 
of  these  objections,  beginning  with  the  one  you 
have  mentioned. 

I do  not  mean  to  controvert  your  criticism  of 
my  favorite  books,  the  Mirror  and  Lounger,  al- 
though I understand  there  are  people  who  think 
themselves  judges,  who  do  not  agree  with  you. 
The  acquisition  of  knowledge,  except  what  is 
connected  with  human  life  and  conduct,  or  the 
particular  business  of  his  employment,  does 
not  appear  to  me  to  be  the  fittest  pursuit  for  a 
peasant.  I would  say  with  the  poet, 

‘ How  empty  learning,  and  liow  vain  is  art, 

Save  where  it  guides  the  life,  or  mends  the  heart.” 

There  seems  to  be  a considerable  latitude  in 
the  use  of  the  word  taste.  I understand  it  to 
be  the  perception  and  relish  of  beauty,  order, 
or  any  thing,  the  contemplation  of  which  gives 
pleasure  and  delight  to  the  mind.  I suppose  it 
is  in  this  sense  you  wish  it  to  be  understood.  If 
I am  right,  the  taste  which  these  books  are  cal- 
culated to  cultivate  (besides  the  taste  for  fine 
writing,  which  many  of  the  papers  tend  to  im- 
prove and  to  gratify,)  is  what  is  proper,  consis- 
tent, and  becoming  in  human  character  and 
conduct,  as  almost  every  paper  relates  to  these 
subjects. 

I am  sorry  I have  not  these  books  by  me, 
that  I might  point  out  some  instances.  I remem- 
ber two  ; one  the  beautiful  story  of  La  Roch,' 
where  beside  the  pleasure  one  derives  from  a 
beautiful  simple  story  told  in  M’Kenzie’s  hap- 
piest manner,  the  mind  is  led  to  taste  with 
heartfelt  rapture,  the  consolation  to  be  derived 
in  deep  affliction,  from  habitual  devotion  and 
trust  in  Almighty  God.  The  other,  the  story 

of  general  W , where  the  reader  is  led  to 

have  a high  relish  for  that  firmness  of  mind 
which  disregards  appearances,  the  common 
forms  and  vanities  of  life,  for  the  sake  of  doing 
justice  in  a case  which  was  out  of  the  reach  of 
human  law's. 

Allow  me  then  to  remark,  that  if  the  morality 
of  these  books  is  subordinate  to  the  cultivation 
of  taste  ; that  taste,  that  refinement  of  mind 
and  delicacy  of  sentiment  which  they  are  inten- 


APPENDIX.  339 


ded  to  give,  are  the  strongest  guard  and  surest 
foundation  of  morality  and  virtue.  Other  mor- 
alists guard,  as  it  were,  the  overt  act;  these 
papers,  by  exalting  duty  into  sentiment,  are  cal- 
culated to  make  every  deviation  from  rectitude 
and  Dropriety  of  conduct,  painful  to  the  mind, 

“ Whose  temper’d  powers, 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien.” 

I readily  grant  you.  that  the  refinement  of 
mind  which  1 contend  for,  increases  our  sensi- 
bility to  the  evils  of  life  ! but  what  station  of 
life  is  without  its  evils  ! There  seems  to  be  no 
such  thing  as  perfect  happiness  in  this  world, 
and  we  must  balance  the  pleasure  and  the  pain 
which  we  derive  from  taste,  before  we  can  pro- 
perly appreciate  it  in  the  case  before  us.  I ap- 
prehend that  on  a minute  examination  it  will 
appear,  that  the  evils  peculiar  to  the  lower  ranks 
of  life,  derive  their  power  to  wound  us,  more 
from  the  suggestions  of  false  pride,  and  the 
“ contagion  of  luxury,  weak  and  vile,”  than 
the  refinement  of  our  taste.  It  was  a favorite 
remark  of  my  brother’s,  that  there  was  no  part 
of  the  constitution  of  our  nature,  to  which  we 
were  more  indebted,  than  that  by  which  >lCus- 
tom  makes  things  familiar  and  easy ” (a  copy 
Mr.  Murdoch  used  to  set  us  to  write,)  and 
there  is  little  labor  which  custom  will  not  make 
easy  to  a man  in  health,  if  he  is  not  ashamed 
of  his  employment,  or  does  not  begin  to  com- 
pare his  situation  with  those  he  may  see  going 
about  at  their  ease.  * 

But  the  man  of  enlarged  mind  feels  the  re- 
spect due  to  him  as  a man  ; he  has  learned  that 
no  employment  is  dishonorable  in  itself;  that 
while  he  performs  aright  the  duties  of  that 
station  in  which  God  has  placed  him,  he  is  as 
great  as  a king  in  the  eyes  of  Him  whom  lie  is 
principally  desirous  to  please  ; for  the  man  of 
taste,  who  is  constantly  obliged  to  labor,  must 
of  necessity  be  religious.  If  you  teach  him 
only  to  reason,  you  may  make  him  an  atheist, 
a demagogue,  or  any  vile  thing  ; but  if  you  i 
teach  him  to  feel,  his  feelings  can  only  find 
their  proper  and  natural  relief  in  devotion  arid 
religious  resignation.  He  knows  that  those 
people  who  are  to  appearance  at  ease,  are  not 
without  their  share  ol  evils,  and  that  even  toil 
itself  is  not  destitute  of  advantages.  He  listens 
to  the  words  of  his  favorite  poet : 

“ O mortal  man,  iliat  livost  here  hy  toil. 

Cease  to  repine  am!  grudge  thy  hard  estate  ! 

That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil, 

Is  a sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date  ; 

And  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great  ; 

Although  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and  wail, 
Ami  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge,  and  late  ; 

Withouten  that  would  come  an  heavier  bale. 

Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale  !” 

And,  while  he  repeats  the  words,  the  grateful 
recollection  comes  across  his  mind,  how  often 
he  has  derived  ineffable  pleasure  from  the  sweet 
song  of  “Nature’s  darling  child.”  I can  say, 
from  my  own  experience,  that  there  is  no  sort  of 
farm-labor  inconsistent  with  the  most  refined 
and  pleasurable  state  of  the  mind  that  I am  ac- 
quainted with,  thrashing  alone  excepted.  That, 
indeed,  I have  always  considered  as  insupporta- 
ble drudgery,  and  think  the  ingenious  mechanic 
who  invented  the  thrashing  machine,  ought  to 
have  a statue  among  the  benefactors  of  his 
country,  and.  should  be  placed  in  the  niche  next 


to  the  person  who  introduced  the  culture  of  po- 
tatoes into  this  island. 

Perhaps  the  thing  of  most  importance  in  the 
education  of  the  common  people  is,  to  prevent 
the  intrusion  of  artificial  wants.  I bless  the 
memory  of  my  worthy  father  for  almost  every 
thing  in  the  dispositions  of  my  mind,  and  my 
habits  of  life,  w hich  1 can  approve  of : and  for 
none  more  than  the  pains  he  took  to  impress 
my  mind  with  the  sentiment,  that  nothing  was 
more  unworthy  the  character  of  a man,  than 
that  his  happiness  should  in  the  least  depend 
on  what  he  should  eat  or  drink.  So  early  did 
lie  impress  my  mind  with  this,  that  although  I 
was  as  fond  of  sw’eetmeats  as  children  generally 
are.  yet  I seldom  laid  out  any  of  the  half-pence 
which  relations  or  neighbors  gave  me  at  fairs, 
in  the  purchase  of  them  ; and  if  I did,  every 
mouthful  I swallowed  wa3  accompanied  with 
shame  and  remorse  ; and  to  this  hour  J never 
indulge  in  the  use  of  any  delicacy,  but  I feel  a 
considerable  degree  of  self-reproach  and  alarm 
lor  the  degradation  of  the  human  character. 
Such  a habit  of  thinking  I consider  as  of  great 
consequence,  both  to  the  virtue  and  happiness 
of  men  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life.  And  thus, 
Sir,  1 am  of  opinion,  that  if  their  minds  are 
early  and  deeply  impressed  with  a sense  of  the 
dignity  of  man,  as  such  ; with  the  love  of  inde- 
pendence and  of  industry,  economy  and  tem- 
perance, as  the  most  obvious  means  of  making 
themselves  independent,  arid  the  virtues  most 
becoming  their  situation,  and  necessary  to  their 
j happiness  ; men  in  the  lower  ranks  of  iife  may 
j partake  of  the  pleasures  to  be  derived  from  the 
perusal  of  books  calculated  to  improve  the 
mind  and  refine  the  taste,  without  any  danger 
of  becoming  more  unhappy  in  their  situation 
or  discontented  with  it.  Nor  do  I think  there 
is  any  danger  of  their  becoming  less  useful. 
There  are  some  hours  every  day  that  the  most 
constant  laborer  is  neither  at  work  nor  asleep. 
These  hours  are  either  appropriated  to  amuse- 
ment or  to  sloth.  If  a taste  for  employing 
these  hours  in  reading  were  cultivated.  1 do  not 
suppose  that  the  return  fo  labor  would  be  more 
difficult.  Every  one  will  allow,  that  the  attach- 
ment to  idle  arriusemenis,  or  even  to  sloth,  has 
as  powerful  a tendency  to  abstract  men  from 
their  proper  business,  as  the  attachment  to 
books  ; while  the  one  dissipates  the  mind,  and 
the  other  tends  to  increase  its  powers  of  self- 
government.  To  those  who  are  afraid  that  the 
improvement  of  the  minds  of  the  common  peo- 
ple might  be  dangerous  to  the  state,  or  the  es- 
tablished order  of  society,  I would  remark,  that 
turbulence  and  commotion  are  certainly  very 
inimical  to  the  feelings  of  a refined  mind.  Let 
the  matter  be  brought  to  the  test  of  experience 
and  observation.  Of  what  description  of  peo- 
ple are  mobs  and  insurrections  composed  ? 
Are^iey  not  universally  owing  to  the  want  of 
enla^ement  and  improvement  of  mind  among 
the  common  people?  Nay,  let  any  one  recol- 
lect the  characters  of  those  who  formed  the 
calmer  and  more  deliberate  associations,  which 
lately  gave  so  much  alarm  to  the  government 
of  this  country.  I suppose  few  of  the  common 
people  who  were  to  be  found  in  such  societies, 
had  the  education  and  turn  of  mind  I have  been 
endeavoring  to  recommend.  Allow  me  to  sug- 
gest one  reason  for  endeavoring  to  enlighten 
the  minds  of  the  common  people.  Their  mor- 


APPENDIX. 


aio 


als  have  hitherto  been  guarded  by  a sort  of  dim 
religious  awe,  which  from  a variety  of  causes, 
seems  wearing  off.  I think  the  alteration  in 
this  respect  considerable,  in  the  short  period  of 
my  observation.  I have  already  given  my 
opinion  of  the  effects  of  refinement  of  mind  on 
morals  and  virtue.  Whenever  vulgar  minds 
begin  to  shake  off  the  dogmas  of  the  religion 
in  which  they  have  been  educated,  the  progress 
is  quick  and  immediate  to  downright  infidelity  ; 
and  notfling  but  refinement  of  mind  can  enable 
them  to  distinguish  between  the  pure  essence 
of  religion,  and  the  gross  systems  which  men 
have  been  perpetually  connecting  it  with.  In 
addition  to  what  has  already  been  done  for  the 
education  of  the  common  people  of  this  coun- 
try, in  the  establishment  of  parish  schools,  I 
wish  to  see  the  salaries  augmented  in  some 
proportion  to  the  present  expense  of  living,  and 
the  earnings  of  people  of  similar  rank,  endow- 
ments, and  usefulness  in  society  ; and  I hope 
that  the  liberality  of  the  present  age  will  be  no 
longer  disgraced  by  refusing,  to  so  useful  a 
class  of  men,  such  encouragement  as  may 
make  parish  schools  worth  the  attention  of  men 
fitted  for  the  important  duties  of  that  office.  In 
filling  up  the  vacancies,  I would  have  more  at- 
tention paid  to  the  candidate’s  capacity  of  read- 
ing the  English  language  with  grace  and  pro- 
riety  ; to  his  understanding  thoroughly,  and 
aving  a high  relish  for  the  beauties  of  English 
authors,  both  in  poetry  and  prose  ; to  that  good 
sense  and  knowledge  of  human  nature  which 
would  enable  him  to  acquire  some  influence  on 
the  minds  and  affections  of  his  scholars  ; to  the 
eneral  worth  of  his  character,  and  the  love  of 
is  king  and  his  country,  than  to  his  proficiency 
in  the  knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek.  I 
would  then  have  a sort  of  high  English  class 
established,  not  only  for  the  purpose  of  teach- 
ing the  pupils  to  read  in  that  graceful  and  agree- 
able manner  that  might  make  them  fond  of 
reading,  but  to  make  them  understand  what 
they  read,  and  discover  the  beauties  of  the  au- 
thor, in  composition  and  sentiment.  I would 
have  established  in  every  parish,  a small  circu- 
lating library,  consisting  of  the  books  which 
the  young  people  had  read  extracts  from  in  the 
collections  they  had  read  at  school,  and  any 
other  books  well  calculated  to  refine  the  mind, 
improve  the  moral  feelings,  recommend  the 
practice  of  virtue,  and  communicate  such 
knowledge  as  might  be  useful  and  suitable  to 
the  laboring  classes  of  men.  I would  have  the 
schoolmaster  act  as  librarian,  and  in  recom- 
mending books  to  his  young  friends,  formerly 


his  pupils,  and  letting  in  the  light  of  them  upon 
their  young  minds,  he  should  have  the  assist- 
ance of  the  minister.  If  once  such  education 
were  become  general,  the  low  delights  of  the 
public  house,  and  other  scenes  of  riot  and  de- 
pravity, would  be  contemned  and  neglected  ; 
while  industry,  order,  cleanliness,  and  every 
virtue  which  taste  and  independence  of  mind 
could  recommend,  would  prevail  and  flourish- 
Thus  possessed  of  a virtuous  and  enlightened 
populace,  with  high  delight  I should  consider 
my  native  country  as  at  the  head  of  all  the  na- 
tions of  the  earth,  ancient  or  modern. 

Thus,  Sir,  have  I executed  my  threat  to  the 
fullest  extent,  in  regard  to  the  length  of  my  let- 
ter. If  I had  not  presumed  on  doing  it  more  to 
my  liking,  I should  not  have  undertaken  it ; but 
I have  not  time  to  attempt  it  anew  ; nor  if  I 
would,  am  I certain  that  I should  succeed  any 
better.  I have  learned  to  have  less  confidence 
in  my  capacity  of  writing  on  such  subjects. 

I am  much  obliged  by  your  kind  inquiries 
about  my  situation  and  prospects.  I am  much 
pleased  wiih  the  soil  of  this  farm,  and  with  the 
terms  on  which  1 possess  it.  1 receive  great 
encouragement  likewise  in  building,  enclosing, 
and  other  conveniences,  from  my  landlord,  Mr. 
G S Monteith,  whose  general  character  and 
conduct,  as  a landlord  and  country  gentleman, 
I am  highly  pleased  with.  But  the  land  is  in 
such  a siate  as  to  require  a considerable  imme- 
diate outlay  of  money  in  the  purchase  of  manure, 
the  grubbing  of  brush- wood,  removing  of 
stones.  &c.  which  twelve  years’  struggle  with  a 
farm  of  a cold,  ungrateful  soil,  has  but  ill  prepa- 
red me  for.  If  I can  get  these  things  done, 
however,  to  my  mind,  I think  there  is  next  to  a 
certainty  that  in  five  or  six  years  I shall  be  in  a 
hopeful  way  of  attaining  a situation  which  I think 
as  eligible  for  happiness  as  any  one  I know  ; for 
I have  always  been  of  opinion,  that  if  a man  bred 
to  the  habits  of  a farming  life,  who  possesses  a 
farm  of  good  soil,  on  such  terms  as  enables  him 
easily  to  pay  all  demands,  is  not  happy,  he  ought 
to  look  some  where  else  than  to  his  situation  for 
the  causes  of  his  uneasiness. 

I beg  you  will  present  my  most  respectful 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Currie,  and  remember 
me  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Roscoe,  and  Mr.  Roscoe, 
junior,  whose  kind  attentions  to  me,  when  in 
Liverpool,  I shall  never  forget. 

I am,  dear  Sir,  your  most  obedient,  and 
Much  obliged,  humble  Servant, 

GILBERT  BURNS. 

To  James  Currte,  M.  D . F.  R.  S.  > 

i Liverpool.  ) 


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